Reverb
by H.T.Marie
Summary: Post-Michael thru Season 4, Blaine's just a little unwell, and it's not long before everyone can tell. Physical and Mental illness. Hurt/Comfort. If Robin Cook wrote for Glee and General Hospital, the story would probably go like this. Season 3 and 4 Universe Expansion with Klaine focus.
1. How It Is

**Title:** Reverb

 **Fandom:** Glee

 **Rating:** Teen

 **Length:** ~200,000 words, 7300 this part

 **Pairings:** Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel

 **Summary:** Post-Michael thru Season 4, Blaine's just a little unwell, and it's not long before everyone can tell. Physical and Mental illness. Hurt/Comfort. If Robin Cook wrote for Glee and General Hospital, the story would probably go like this.

 **Warnings/Triggers-Overall:** Long term physical illness, mental illness, grossly dramatized medical situations, mentions of violence, depression, anxiety, mentions of self-harm(not cutting), implied sexual situations (non-graphic), canon character death

 **Disclaimer:** For entertainment purposes only. I do not own Glee or the characters and can therefore not be paid for this. It's a labor of love.

 **Foreword:** I will try to make this the only longish author note in the story. I don't know what I'm doing here, posting fic for a show that has been over for years. I tried to resist it. I tried to fight it, but when it came down to it, I haven't been able to write anything other than musings about things like, "How to Ride Shoulder-In on the Outside Rein to Maintain Uphill Balance Without Losing the Haunches During the Transition to Half Pass," in at least six years. I imagine most of the people reading this got an Author Alert and were expecting Supernatural fic. So, I should just say now, that I only watch Supernatural to get the episodes off my DVR so my husband can record whatever he needs the room for. I don't hate the show, but I'm not inspired by it anymore. This is not Supernatural fic, and none of the unfinished SPN fic is going to be finished. There are several reasons for this, from loss of inspiration to flat out performance anxiety and confidence issues, but it's for those very reasons that I have written 20 chapters of this story without posting it in order to make sure that's not going to happen here.

This story will be around 200,000 words long, and I've written 160,000 since February of this year. I don't know if anyone's left to read it, but no matter how hard I tried to talk myself out of writing it, it refused to let me go. I have twenty chapters written, and I know exactly where it's going and how it's going to get there. It should be around Twenty-five chapters.

I suppose the correct term for this story is AU, since it diverges from canon. However, I choose to think of it as a Glee Universe Expansion Pack to enhance all things Klaine. I'll be honest. I apparently stopped watching the show in Season Four, though I can't remember actually making any decision to do so. When I started streaming it on Netflix over Christmas break last year, I realized I'd never seen the ending, and while I didn't care for how they got there, I actually like how the story ended for all my favorite characters. So, this fic will expand on the story, leave out some parts of canon, move some things around, add in some elements that weren't there in canon, and basically touch on all of my angst/hurt/comfort/fluff/medical drama/romance kinks (and I mean all of them, note the word count) without actually changing how the characters end up at the end of the show. So, while that's happy for most, if a character died in canon, they die in this story. I don't want to change their future, just how they get there. I also adopted a few elements of fanon which have never actually been refuted by canon, like the reason for Blaine being a year behind Kurt in school and Carole being a nurse by trade. I also might have a redemption fetish and probably tried to fix a few characters. I don't think that changes how they end up, either.

I really just wanted to give Blaine a medical condition so I could write H/C, but the deeper I got into it, the more I realized my canon Blaine is mentally ill, seriously, whether they actually come out and say it or not. So, I had to address that, too.

This is epic and often internal, though I made a hugely concerted effort to do away with pages and pages of introspection, but it's also Glee, so there are laughs, lots of implausible drama, parody, and music. This is also me, so there will be ellipses, run on sentences, and sentence fragments. I write how I think, which is not grammatically correct. I'm aware of that. There will, however, be no ridiculous epithets; all characters are addressed by their names or a pronoun. There will be no graphic sex but tons of innuendo and implied sexual situations. And there is no cussing.

Also, there's very little of the Season Four New Directions characters, because I hated all of them except Kitty. Sorry.

I promise not to beg for reviews at the end of every chapter, because no one likes that, and I honestly expect there's no one to read it, anyway. This is a true labor of love. However, I will point out now that I am not one who is gifted with the superpower of word vomit. I agonize over every single. one. By my estimates, it takes me at least twenty minutes to write what it takes a reader one minute or less to read, not including the time I spend pondering how a scene should go and then re-editing it after it's written. These are massive chapters. Most of them are 7 to 10,000 words, sometimes more. If you read all that and liked it, please let me know. I don't have a planned posting schedule, but plan on once or twice a week, at least until I've finished writing it.

Now, places everyone!

On with the show.

 **Reverb:** Chapter One

Burt Hummel had gone selectively deaf to the squeak of his truck door and the solid, heavy thud it made when he slammed it shut, rattling the glass inside the frame. Parked in the driveway outside the Anderson house, however, it seemed louder than he remembered. He couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious in his dingy work clothes and sweat-stained cap from the tire shop, but there was no need for embarrassment, no one around to see.

The houses on this street loomed stately, twice the size of the Hudson Hummel's, at least, but paying for them must've trumped actually living there. Not a single other car was visible at the midday hour(1). The entire neighborhood had an unlived in quality about it that Burt didn't much care for. Not so much as a barking dog suggested anything more substantial than the names on the mailboxes had taken residence there, a shoe box diorama of suburbia.

Blaine's house appeared no more homey looking than the rest. If Burt hadn't known for a fact that Blaine was laid up in his room, waiting for the swelling in his eye to go down enough so they could do the surgery to repair this corneal scratch, he would have had no problem believing the whole neighborhood was vacant. He knew Blaine's mom had been keeping longer hours at her office so that she could take the day of Blaine's surgery off. Pam had seemed both relieved and gracious that Burt offered to check in on Blaine during the day while she was out, but she hadn't expounded on the whereabouts of Blaine's father other than to say he was 'out of town.'

It was none of Burt's business, but at the same time, it chapped his ass that Blaine was left to fend for himself all day while he was injured. It wasn't exactly convenient for Burt to drive across town during his work day either, but he was the boss and had a capable staff that needed him less than Blaine did right then.

Besides, this wasn't just a casual check-in. Today, he had news to deliver. He'd made Kurt promise not to call or text Blaine to tell him about the NYADA letter. Burt wanted to see the look on Blaine's face himself when he found out Kurt was a finalist.

He'd be so proud.

Burt tried the doorbell. He hated the idea of waking Blaine, if he was asleep, but didn't feel right letting himself in even though Pam had told him where to find the key under the deck in the side yard. To be honest, Burt couldn't see himself squatting down to retrieve a key from under the deck and then making it back to standing without a whole lot of creaking and groaning. There was a reason he'd installed hydraulic lifts at the garage. Too many years of climbing under cars the old-fashioned way had made him... well, old.

The chime of the doorbell sounded like the gong of a clock big enough to sit in the middle of a courtyard somewhere, and it echoed through the interior of the house for at least five full seconds before dying away. Certain that Blaine could not possibly have missed it, Burt waited a solid two minutes with no response before pressing the button again.

As the last ding-dong faded, Burt heard the door mechanism click as though it had been unlocked electronically, and an intercom next to the door squawked with a burst of static. "It's open, Mr. Hummel."

Blaine was expecting him, then. Burt turned the knob and went inside even more self-conscious of his steel toes leaving marks on the immaculate tile in the entryway than he had been about his old truck parked in the drive. The staircase stretched upward from just inside the foyer and looped back around in the middle to the second floor hallway. Burt couldn't help but imagine that the Anderson family Christmas tree was fifteen feet tall and went up next to the stairwell, so they could decorate it over the rail and add the topper from the landing. He felt small standing at the bottom looking up, and his practical, head of household persona didn't want to imagine the cost of the heating bill to warm that place in the winter.

Work boots eerily muted on the carpet runner, he made his way up to Blaine's room at the top of the stairs and knocked on the door. "Blaine?"

"Come in." The voice sounded strange through the door.

"Hey, kid," Burt greeted as he stepped inside, "How you doin' today?"

Blaine was propped against the upholstered headboard, dressed in navy pajamas with white piping, hair askew and bleary-eyed. Various textbooks and binders littered the rumpled bedclothes, but Blaine didn't try to keep them in any semblance of order as he struggled to sit up straighter from where he was leaned back against a pile of pillows. His one good eye blinked at half speed, head held stiffly atop his neck. The one hand he had absently splayed across his chest fell into his lap and he pushed himself up with the other arm, his ever-present, charming smile a little crooked and forced beneath the eyepatch.

"I'm hanging in there," Blaine grinned. He gestured to the avalanche of makeup homework sliding off his lap. "Just practicing my learning by osmosis technique. Figured if I couldn't read more than half a page at a time, I'd try sleeping under them and see if the knowledge just wormed its way in on its own." His fingers wiggled a halo around his head.

"How's that working out for you?"

A weak laugh. "Yeah, it's not." He flinched with the laugh, his forehead tight and furrowed. "I'm not really supposed to be reading, because they don't want me to strain my other eye, so I thought I'd do some math, because…"

"Because math isn't reading," Burt chuckled, shaking his head. "You know it wouldn't kill you to just follow doctor's orders and take it easy."

"You sound like Kurt." Blaine grinned and sank back into his pillows, a wistful expression on his face that reminded Burt of all the times a family movie night had encroached on a PG-13 rating of its own down at the far end of the sofa when the boys thought he wasn't looking.

One arm snaked up from where it was crossed over Burt's chest and slid over his chin to the back of his neck as he tried to smear the knowing smirk off his face. The kid had it bad.

"He says I'll throw off my whole perception of space and end up poking him in the eye when we…"

Burt coughed loudly, because he didn't really want to know about what his son and his boyfriend did to get close enough to put someone's eye out or what they were putting it out _with_. While he managed to drown the tail end of that particular thought stream, it did nothing to deter Blaine from rambling on.

"And I know I'm supposed to take it easy, but I have all this work to do, and it's not going to get done if I don't do it, right?" He was suddenly more animated, arms gesticulating above the clutter that hemmed him in. Then, with a helpless shrug, "Besides, it's not like I have anything else to do besides think about how this stuff is just piling up by the hour. So, I get all anxious until I can't stand it anymore and try to at least catch up on the reading, and then I remember why I'm not supposed to be reading in the first place."

He scrubbed a hand over his face and up into his hair stretch out behind him with a shake of his head. After a thoughtful pause he shivered, looking Burt in the eye. "You never think about how much you move your eye when you read until you can actually _feel_ it moving." He fisted a handful of hair, groaning in frustration. "It moves so much! It's like I have bugs under my eyelid, and they're crawling around." His one eye went wide, some disturbing thought apparently worming its way to the forefront of his mind. "You don't think that's possible, do you?" he asked.

Burt opened his mouth to speculate as to whether he thought anything was under Blaine's eyepatch other than his eye but never actually managed to get a word in.

"You know, like maybe mites or something? I mean, there are ear wigs, right? Are there eye mites? Where would they live, do you think? In my eyelashes?" By then Blaine was patting the area around his injured eye with his fingertips as if looking for evidence that eye mites were setting up house on his face. "God, I hope not. Kurt _loves_ my eyelashes!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, there kid," Burt snickered as he reached out to pull Blaine's hand away from his face. "I'm no doctor, but I'm sure if there were bugs living in your eyelashes, they were all smothered by the ointment. You've been using the ointment they gave you at the E.R., right?" He patted Blaine's shoulder to impart some reassurance.

Blaine sagged against the pillows again. "Oh yeah, that's probably true. You're really smart, Mr. Hummel."

"And you're high as a kite," Burt smirked. "I don't know about the ointment, but whatever they gave you for pain is doing a number on you."

"Not really," Blaine shrugged. "That stuff makes me dizzy, so I only take it when I want to go to sleep. But I feel like all I've been doing is sleeping." His gaze darted around the room, unfocused. "I guess I'm just a little stir crazy."

"Ah." Burt acknowledged, not entirely sure he believed the last dose had actually worn off. "I can relate to that. I spent so much time on the couch after my heart scare that I practically wore the numbers off the television remote. I never watched less than three shows at the same time." He looked around him. "At least, if you've got to be laid up for a while, you've got some pretty nice digs to do it in. I can see why Kurt spends so much time here."

Blaine huffed a laugh toward one of his pillows. "No, I really don't think you do."

Burt didn't want to think about the implication behind that statement. He wasn't stupid. He knew Blaine's parents were hardly ever home and that there was ample opportunity for the boys to get up to… mischief here, but they were good boys. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. Yup. Good boys.

Suddenly uncomfortable, he busied himself by taking in his surroundings. He'd only been to Blaine's room once before, and Kurt had been with him. Now, he felt a little like he was invading the kid's privacy. Trying not to look like he was looking for incriminating evidence, he gawked around awkwardly, hands in the pockets of his coveralls, gathering in whatever he could see and using the new imagery to fill in the gaps he had in his mental picture of the boy his son was in love with.

Nothing stood out as unusual- bookshelf full of mostly nonfiction, biographies, texts and whatnot, some audio visual type memorabilia, an old camera, something that was either a pair of opera glasses or really tiny binoculars, various awards, mostly musical, except for...

"Horses?" he pointed at the seemingly random horse trophies atop the dresser. "Do you ride, Blaine?"

Blaine shrugged dismissively. "I used to. Ponies, actually. I only competed for a few years, Medium and Large Pony Hunters. My parents and my trainer thought I should've moved up to the Medal classes, been the next Jessica Springsteen," he shrugged, "but that just seemed like a good way to take something fun and turn it into a full time job. You have to have a whole other level of passion for it to take on that kind of commitment." He smashed his pillows flat and flopped down, face up to the ceiling. "Wouldn't have minded meeting Bruce, though."

Burt chuckled, working his bottom lip out since he had absolutely no idea what a pony would be hunting other than, maybe carrots, or what a medal class was.

"But hey," Blaine added, "If you ever need someone to go charging in on a fiery steed," one arm levitated off the bed as if wielding a sword, "I'm your guy."

Feeling more at ease, Burt removed his hat and sat down in the leather armchair by the bed. Blaine shuttered his eyes, fingers massaging the space between.

"You doin' okay?"

Blaine seemed distracted for a second, the hand in his lap creeping back up to its former position splayed over his chest. His head ensconced between the swells of his pillows, he met Burt's gaze from beneath a fan of eyelashes, still grinning with his normal charm. "Yeah." He waved a hand around his head. "It just turns out that an eye injury is a lot like a toothache. It radiates through your whole head." He grimaced. "I guess for some people, the brain just doesn't know how to deal with the stimulation, or something, and thinks everything hurts. Feels like I've got a red hot fire poker wedged in my skull, but apparently, it's not real. It only feels real."

"Don't kid yourself," Burt argued. "If it feels real. It's real. Do you need some more pain medication? I can leave if you want to sleep."

"Nah, that stuff only lasts a couple hours before it wears off, and I can only take so many in a day. I'm trying to wait until right before Kurt gets here to take another one. That way I'll be able to enjoy the company better, and he won't..."

"He won't freak out worrying about you," Burt supplied, because Kurt most definitely would be freaking out if he could see the pain etched over Blaine's features now. "I've been there," he added with a nod, recalling the time he'd spent recovering from his heart attack while simultaneously trying to prevent Kurt from having one of his own. Frowning, he glanced at his watch. "School doesn't get out for two more hours, and then there's Glee practice. You sure you wanna tough it out 'til then?"

Blaine shrugged and let his head loll. "I'll manage. As long as it doesn't get any worse. It just kinda sucks right now, is all."

Burt took a beat to soak in the situation, rolling up his cap between his hands, then tossed it onto the bedspread beside Blaine's knee. "Well, here's to a little less suck in your day. This is not just a courtesy call. I come bearing the cure for your day of suck. Or, as we regular joes would say, good news."

Blaine lifted an eyebrow in interest, tilted his chin, "Oh yeah?"

"Kurt got his NYADA letter today. He's a finalist!" Burt felt his entire expression split open, beaming.

Blaine actually lifted his head then, his smile taking over his whole face. One hand raised overhead somewhere between what the kids called 'raising the roof' and hallelujah, he dropped his head to his chest in relief, barely blinking back the pride. "That's amazing! I knew he'd get it!"

Burt couldn't help but lean across the side of the bed to pat Blaine's knee, knowing Blaine had played a major part in getting Kurt through the hell that was last year. When Blaine lurched up to a sitting position once more, Burt went one further and pulled him into a hug. "We really got us a good one, didn't we?"

"We sure did."

"Gosh, that's… crazy. He's going to kill it in New York." The last statement came out quieter, more reverent than the rest, and Blaine clapped Burt's shoulder, giving it one last squeeze before starting to pull away. Burt let him fall back against the bed, the grin still broad despite the deepening furrows in his brow.

"I made him promise not to call you or text you about it. I wanted to be the one to tell you."

Blaine huffed a single chuckle, ducking his head away. "That's so sweet of you. You didn't have to come all the way over here, though. You could've called."

"No, no I couldn't," Burt insisted. He smoothed over the wrinkles in his coveralls, sitting back in the chair, hands on his thighs. "I wanted to see your face… and I… I wanted to thank you, Blaine."

"Thank me?" Blaine's brow furrowed for a different reason, managing to be as expressive as ever, even with one eye covered. "For what?"

"Don't sell yourself short, kid. I know you went out of your way to look out for Kurt, even before the two of you were…" Burt gesticulated, opening and closing his hands and bunching up the coveralls beneath them in the process, "well, together. I worry about him, you know? I do my best to prepare him, but I can't go out there with him, and I honestly can't even begin to understand what it's like for him, for both of you, out there. It's so much harder for you guys…"

"Because we're gay," Blaine offered.

"Frankly, yes." Burt leaned forward, then, hands clasping, as he looked Blaine in the eye. "And I gotta say, I'm not entirely sure I'm ready to wrap my head around the idea that my son has a boyfriend, but… I know what kind of a place he was in before he met you, and I'm not sure he would've come out the other side of it without you." A beat. "Don't get me wrong. I always knew there was this fierce, amazing person inside of him, but I only ever really saw it at home. He never really let it come out until he met you. You've been really good for him and _to_ him, and I just wanted to thank you for that."

He could tell he'd said too much as Blaine blinked back at him, mouth opening and closing, hand scrubbing at the back of his neck.

"Just hold that thought, okay?" Burt assuaged. "I'm not finished. I know it can't be easy for you to think about Kurt going off to New York, especially after you transferred schools and everything to be there for him. So, I just want to make sure you know that I'm always available if you need anything. Anything at all. I have a feeling next year is going to suck pretty bad for both of us, but if we've gotta go through the suck, we might as well do it together, right?"

Blaine smiled again a slight blush across his cheek as the tension drained out of him. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Anytime," Burt nodded. He stood, picking up his cap, fully prepared to say his goodbyes and head back to work before things could get awkward again. "Is there anything I can get you before I head back to the shop?"

A shadow slipped over Blaine's features, accompanied by a small flinch as he leaned back into the pillows once more. "Umm, no. I, uh, think I'll just try to take a nap."

"You sure? I could sit with you until you fall asleep. Those guys down at the shop actually don't need me today."

Blaine considered the offer, but then said, "No, I'm not very good company right now, anyway." He took half a breath before seeming to get an idea, "but if you wouldn't mind, there is one thing…"

"Sure, anything."

* * *

It took some searching, but the plastic champagne flutes ended up being right where Blaine said they'd be, and Burt toted them back to Blaine's bedroom along with the cold diet soda in preparation for the celebratory toast Blaine wanted to give Kurt when he arrived. He let himself back into the room with just a short knock, found Blaine sitting up the way he had been when Burt arrived the first time, one hand splayed across his chest, massaging over the pocket in his pajama top. His face was drawn and distracted, gaze unfocused when Burt set the soda and glasses down on the nightstand.

"What you thinking about so hard?"

Blaine startled and looked up, "Oh, hey, Mr. Hummel."

"Burt."

"Burt." He swallowed and blinked a few times, cleared his throat. "Nothing really. Just a little fuzzy, I guess." Blaine switched on the charm, smile amping up another two notches as he looked up. "Hey," he said, gesturing toward the dresser. "Did you know I used to ride?"

Burt's stomach did a little flip as he tried to work out the expression on Blaine's face and noted the kid seemed genuinely sincere. "Yeah, Blaine. In fact, we just talked about that not even half an hour ago."

"We did?" Blinking as though he was having trouble focusing, Blaine folded his arms across his chest, thumbs pointed up, and let his head fall back. "Huh. Guess this headache's worse than I thought."

"I guess," Burt agreed, eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge the situation. Something just didn't sit right with him. The kid didn't remember what they'd talked about less than an hour ago, and he was being left in charge of his own medication?

Despite having been prepared to leave, Burt took a seat. Kurt didn't need to be freaking out worrying about Blaine, but somebody probably needed to be. "Get some sleep, kid."

"Aren't you going back to work?"

"Actually, I've been meaning to catch up on my reading." A copy of Celebrity Beat magazine lay on the nightstand, and Burt picked it up, flipping it open to a random page to feign reading as he kicked his feet up on the bedframe to get comfortable. "This thing got a crossword puzzle?" He reached for the pen he kept in the pocket of his coveralls only to discover he'd lost it for the third time already that day. Forgetting where he was, he reached toward the nightstand.

Blaine opened his eyes just as Burt's fingers closed around the drawer pull, the words, "Maybe a sudok…" suddenly cut off as he surged forward and slammed the drawer shut, cheeks burning red. He swallowed hard and gestured toward the magazine Burt was holding. "It's upside down." An obvious deflection. "You shouldn't read that way. Might strain your eyes."

Still a little stricken by the lightning fast reflexes Blaine still commanded despite his faulty depth perception, Burt somehow convinced himself he hadn't actually had a chance to see inside the drawer before it slammed shut. He glanced back at the magazine, more than willing to be diverted from the horrors he hadn't actually, not really very clearly at all, barely even recognized and probably just imagined based on memories of his own teenaged nightstand stash. He couldn't wait, in fact, to check out the magazine if it helped him forget how much time Kurt had been spending here, of late. It actually was upside down. He probably could've read it that way. After all, he'd had no trouble a second ago with the words 'Trojan' and 'K-Y' which were also, incidentally, upside down.

Oh boy.

"Uh, yup. So it is," Burt conceded, flipping the magazine right side up and pretending to read the headline. "What's this 'Hunger Games,' everyone's talking about? That one of those reality cooking shows you two are always watching?"

Blaine's laugh sounded almost like a sigh of relief. "Thanks for hanging out with me, Mr. Hummel."

"Get some sleep, kid."

* * *

Blaine didn't feel the least bit sorry about sniping at Mr. Schuester, but with choir practice being held hostage by the Rachel/Finn drama orchestrated by one Sebastian Smythe, he didn't see the point of sticking around, either. Life was too freaking short.

He needed to go a few rounds with the punching bag, but his heart was already racing, and it was still the middle of the day. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth together in an effort to swallow down the bile that'd been sloshing at the back of his throat all morning, and the burn made it painful to take a full breath, even though it sounded like wind rushing in his ears on every in and out.

Too much of what was going on outside had wormed its way in.

He knew he was supposed to let it go. He had that follow up appointment coming right after Regionals, and he didn't want to sit through another lecture about managing his stress and laying off the caffeine. He almost lost an eye, for chrissakes! Of course, he'd been stressed. One weird blip on the screen during his surgery, and now he had to give up coffee (which was really, really hard to explain away) and 'try not to let things get to him so much.'

Sure. Okay. If it would make his mom stop looking at him like she was trying to read his mind and please, please get his brother to give up the idea that he needed to come for a visit, then Blaine would lay off the caffeine.

The rest, though?

Well, bottling that stuff up- stuff like Sebastian, and New York, and Dad, and Cooper- that's how he knew he was alive. That's how he tapped into the music and the music tapped him back. He didn't know how to tone that down.

Intense.

Blaine didn't know any other way to be. Wouldn't be that way, even if he did. What would be the point?

Young and in love, nearly blinded, betrayed, abandoned, and soon to be left behind- he had plenty of energy to draw on. If he didn't tap into it, the thrum under his skin and between his rib bones would bounce around until it blew him apart, one giant feedback loop of vibration, the wavelengths crashing together, tighter and faster until it shorted him out.

He didn't mean to snap when Kurt found him in the auditorium working the kinks out of "Cough Syrup(2)."

"Forget about Sebastian!" Immediately apologetic, he opened his hands as if to smooth the air between them, eyes closed as he tried to calm his roiling gut. " I'm not mad at you. I just don't want to waste any more time on him."

No more time not singing. No more time waiting to come down on his own. No more time waiting for this scab to fall off.

Too much loomed over him, too many things, unresolved and fractured, quivered inside of him, but he could still sing. The music still thrummed despite the growing fissures splitting him apart.

Sing. He just needed to sing. That would dull the ache in his chest, stop his hands from trembling, and purge all that stale air from his lungs.

"You wanna hear it?"

As songs went, "Cough Syrup," wasn't one that lent itself to dancing and theatrics, nothing poppy or bouncy he could use to work up a sweat and collapse later in exhausted oblivion. It was more emotional than what he usually picked, but exactly what he needed today, with Kurt sitting right there looking at him like Blaine was never going to have to let him go. Like Dalton's zero tolerance bullying policy that had once given them an umbrella to shelter beneath hadn't just left Sebastian Smythe free to ruin everything another day.

Kurt was still here.

Blaine didn't have to wonder whether he was supposed to hold tighter to every moment or start loosing them now so it would be easier later.

Kurt was still here, live and in full color, like Blaine hadn't just spent weeks with his entire head splitting open, praying he'd be able to see Kurt with both eyes when the patch finally came off.

Kurt was still here, and so was Blaine, if a little worse for wear.

Inspiration? Sure. He had plenty.

He was losing his mind, losing his mind, losing control.

The drum beat in unison with the thump in his chest, reverberated through his whole body, a punch in the air to shake it out, feet running in place, because nothing about him could still. His own teeth felt loose in his mouth and caught in his throat.

This song wasn't about pounding anything out. He had his punching bag for that. This song was about the reverb, about the ache in his chest that vibrated in his teeth, throttled his larynx, made his vision grey out around the edges. It was the scream that erupted at just the breaking point between too much and not enough, that little bit of feedback on what was going on under his skin, kept him in tune with his life no matter how tight the frequency between the love and the pain, between old hurts and the dread of what was to come, no matter how overpowering the bass.

It was staring back at all those fishes in the seas that stared at him first.

Blaine sang to live and to purge out all the poison, relieve the burn under his breastbone, and shock him back into some kind of clarity.

He didn't need to use the whole stage, just the boiling blood in his veins and a microphone stand-the blood to pound in his ears, arms overhead, and splay his fingers like lightning rods- the stand to cling to at the end of a windmill spin, when the sparks had fizzled out, and he was heavy, dropping like so many spent welding shots to the floor.

Another cold heart for the zombies in the park.

Maybe life was too short to even care at all, but while it was thrumming through him and out of him, everything felt better.

Life restored, the way it should be.

Blaine flew apart.

He met Kurt's gaze across the stage, a gaping hole in his soul. His breath stuttered as he ground out the last notes, his voice so much diamond dust and gravel, and curled in on himself. He deflated, knees trembling together, tiptoes straining against the gravity of a black hole.

Out with the bad, and one more spoon of cough syrup down, one more breath of fresh air in.

Except, the song ended, and there was still no air. No breath restored him. The thrumming didn't die. The ache didn't dull. For a second, his chest tightened and his head spun, knuckles whitening as he clung a little too tightly to the microphone stand. The world tilted forward on its axis, greyed out around the edges, and he was falling.

Until he wasn't.

Kurt was there, hands in the hair at the back of Blaine's neck, mouth open on Blaine's mouth, just enough clash of teeth and slide of tongue. The tilt ended with Blaine's hand fisted in Kurt's shirt, his lungs full of Kurt's air, and the microphone stand rolling on the floor. If Kurt held him up and did most of his breathing for him until the world snapped back into focus, well, that's what love was. What love does.

oh-oh-oh.

* * *

Okay, so that song was… not really Regionals material. It would probably make a great soundtrack for one of the new indie films Artie was working on. Kurt suggested as much, as he slid down off his stool, but the glazed over expression on Blaine's face- hands still white-knuckled around the mic stand, his entire body curled around it as he breathed raggedly- told him Blaine wasn't hearing a word.

The way he swayed, spent and shaking, like the music was the only thing that had held him up, did things to Kurt, some of them entirely inappropriate for the school auditorium.

Mostly, though, it hurt. Kurt had always been a little envious of Blaine's ability to tap the raw emotional energy of a song.

But not that song.

Kurt approached, leery of the crackling air, especially after Blaine's earlier outburst, but Blaine's half-lidded eyes, his hollowed out posture drew Kurt like light into a black hole. The microphone stand clattered to the stage and turned a lazy half-circle around the pedestal as Blaine abandoned it for Kurt. For Kurt's hair between his fingertips. For Kurt's jawbone locked between Blaine's thumbs. Kurt held him up, let his extra height stretch out everything that was crumpled inside him. Kurt's arms wrapped in the small of his back.

A little bit of teeth. A little more tongue. And air. All the air Blaine needed, Kurt was more than willing to give.

Kurt let himself be breathed in, marveled at the thrum of Blaine in his arms and held on until the swaying stopped. Blaine broke the kiss first but kept his forehead pressed to Kurt's, cold sweat and pressed powder. His hands slid down the back of Kurt's neck, shoulders, and biceps, then dropped. Kurt held on just a little longer, massaging his thumbs into Blaine's slouched shoulders before he stepped back.

"Mmm, you're shaking." He pulled Blaine against his side, steering him off the stage with an arm around his waist, head tilted against his shoulder. "You wanna talk about it?

"About what?"

"Oh, I don't know. How about you snapping at Mr. Schue earlier, and at me, and what exactly that song is supposed to be inspiration for?"

Blaine huffed with a sideways grin, "I don't know. I guess I've just been a little on edge, but I feel better. The singing helps. _You_ help, Kurt."

"Just doing my boyfriendly duty," Kurt shrugged. "Not that kissing you breathless will ever be an inconvenience."

Blaine turned them face-to-face, his hands massaging Kurt's shoulders, chin tilted downward at that angle that made his eyes darken behind his lashes and made Kurt's heart pound just a little harder and lower in his chest. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm pretty inspired to blow off lunch in favor of a nice trip to the props closet." His fingers snaked into Kurt's belt loop and gave a little tug toward the wings of the auditorium, sashaying backward with a smug grin.

Kurt knew deflection when he saw it. Blaine was an expert at deflection.

Kurt was an expert at deflecting deflection. As tempting as the offer was - oh Gaga, was it tempting- Blaine's hair was still damp with cold sweat, and he was still shaking enough that Kurt could hear his breath waver.

"Considering it's beans and franks day in the cafeteria and your hair is doing that amazing thing where it shrugs off the gel and gets all crazy curly on the ends, that offer is not off the table," Kurt said, "but first we need to talk, Blaine."

Kurt put the brakes on until Blaine's fingers slid from his belt loops, his hands dropping to his sides as he stepped back. Arms crossed, hand to elbow, and shoulders slumped beneath his red sweater, Blaine turned away before scrubbing at the back of his neck with a sigh.

"I thought that's what we were doing."

"That?" Kurt asked, gesturing to the fallen mic stand, the stage already vacated by the band. "That wasn't talking, Blaine. That was you singing some creepy, vaguely unhealthy song, and putting so much of yourself into it that you're wrecked at the end, not to mention scaring the hell out of me in the process."

"Sorry, uh, I'm sorry, Kurt." Blaine shook his head. "I wasn't trying to…"

"No, don't apologize." Kurt took Blaine's elbow and turned him back around. "Look, I know you're still not okay with what went down with the Warblers. Those guys were your friends, and what they did to you was not okay. Someone should have been punished for that."

"Ya think?" There was barely any heat in it, just a resignation that reminded Kurt of their first real conversation last year, Warbler front man to terrible but endearing spy. And what had Blaine said then?

 _Hey, if you're gay, your life's just going to be miserable. Sorry._

Dalton had been Blaine's sanctuary, where he'd come to believe that didn't have to be the case, and now that he'd left, the misery was back. Kurt hadn't missed it. He'd just hoped he was bigger than the shadow.

"No, I know," Kurt replied. "And I wish I could make them pay, but we're just going to have to wait a little longer and beat them on the stage, where it counts."

Blaine nodded, his breath a little steadier. "I know, too, Kurt. It's just…" His mouth opened, but tripped over the words.

Kurt pulled him into a hug. "Until then, if you're hurt, or, or betrayed, or just plain righteously pissed off, you need to say so. It can't be healthy to wind yourself up in knots like this."

Blaine's voice cracked when he nodded, "Thank you, Kurt. For listening. Even if it is to creepy, vaguely unhealthy songs. And for hearing. I think I just needed to vent. So, thank you."

"Mmm, you're welcome." Kurt kissed him again, tenderly this time, and sighed as the bell sounded. "Just never sing that song again, okay?"

Blaine bit his lip, eyes crinkling as he smirked. "Deal."

Kurt took his hand and swung as they headed for the stairs. "We're gonna have to pass on the props closet, though. I'm pretty sure that couch has bedbugs."

* * *

If Blaine was still breathless and a little wobbly the entire rest of the day, well, that was Dave Karofsky's life almost ending, not Blaine's. The McKinley faculty held a mandatory assembly in the gymnasium the next day, but most of the student body was speculating via whispers and huddled discussions around cell phone screens the entire afternoon before, just as soon as the first homophobic slur had appeared on Karofsky's Facebook page.

The actual suicide note didn't get posted until after school hours, but people knew before then what they would do, if that was them.

And Blaine spent the night consoling Kurt who hadn't answered the calls.

Which was why, the next day, when Mr. Schuester moved Glee practice to the auditorium and gave his little spiel about teetering over the ledge and finding something to pull you back, it all seemed... hollow... deficient... lacking.

Blaine had to give the guy props for trying, for trying to intervene. No doubt he'd heard that these things tended to inspire copy cats. He had to say something. Kudos to him for dredging up that painful memory of what, for him, must have seemed the lowest point in his life, and it was probably just the right emotional frequency for most of these kids.

But Blaine couldn't help but feel the way he did when Schue tried to rap. It had the right beat and the right rhyme, but barely scratched the surface of what it was meant to be.

The world was full of things to live for, most of them way better than peanut butter. Did anyone really need Schue to point that out? The problem was never not knowing there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

"The problem isn't finding something to live for. The problem is just living when it takes every ounce of energy to get through the moment you're in."

Blaine hadn't even realized he'd spoken aloud until Kurt responded.

"You, who?"

Kurt's hand tightened in his and stopped him in his tracks. They'd filed out of the auditorium in silence, lost in their thoughts as they made their way back to their lockers to pack up for the day.

"Blaine?"

"Hmm?"

"You, who, Blaine?" Kurt seemed a shade paler than normal, if that was even possible, his eyes wider and brighter. "You said, 'when it takes every ounce of energy to get through the moment _you're_ in.' Who's the 'you' in that sentence, Blaine?"

Okay, he loved Kurt. He did. Not just school boy infatuation, either. He _loved_ him, but Kurt did tend to read into things way too much.

"I don't know. Maybe Dave?" Blaine smiled and swung his arm around Kurt, bumping his head on his boyfriend's shoulder as he steered them back down the hallway.

"Suuure," Kurt granted, reluctantly, his feet only just sliding along enough so that Blaine wasn't physically dragging him. The way his eyes squinted said he wasn't buying Blaine's explanation. "And how would you know what Dave was thinking?"

"C'mon, Kurt. I think we can all relate on some level."

Kurt halted again. "No. No, we can't all relate. We can sympathize. We can try to understand, but we can't all relate, not unless we've actually been on the ledge ourselves."

Okay, so maybe hypervigilant was the word of the day. Five syllables of suffocating, cloying, attention that made Blaine's skin crackle like it was about to slough off.

"Kurt, I was just thinking out loud. Maybe it wasn't grammatically correct. I don't have autocorrect installed on my brain-mouth filter. Pronoun agreement be damned.- Which is why I always let you proofread my English assignments before I turn them in."

"Exactly! Which is why I know that you always use 'you' as a pronoun when you're interjecting your own thoughts, and why I always change it."

He didn't just do it in writing. _Kurt, there is a moment when_ _ **you**_ _say to_ _ **your**_ _self..._

"I thought you just hated second person narrative." Okay, so now they were talking about perspective and not necessarily pronoun agreement, but Blaine knew Kurt's buttons and pushed them at will.

"Second person is just first person once removed!" Kurt exclaimed, true to form, before shaking his head. "But that is entirely beside the point."

"Removed from what, exactly?"

A shrug. "Reality? It's like first person in denial when you're trying to say something but don't want to admit it's you saying it. Like you can just take it back later, because you never really owned it in the first place."

"You, who?" Deflect. Deflect. Deflect.

"Oh no, you are not turning this around on me, Blaine Anderson."

A beat.

"Look...Kurt. I was just processing." Blaine straightened the collar of Kurt's loosely buttoned shirt, pulled the knot of the crazy leather zipper tie back to dead center, all the while summoning his most charming eye twinkle and grin. "It's been a rough couple of weeks for all of us. But the truth is, I don't need Mr. Schue to remind me that there are things worth living for. I have you." His hands finished with the tie, Blaine's thumbs stroked along Kurt's jaw. "In the first person."

 _ **I**_ _'ve been looking for you forever._

Kurt smiled for the first time all day. "That you do." He looked around to see if the hallway was still empty before leaning in for a kiss.

As if to prove the point, Blaine broke the kiss into a series, light brushes of lips punctuated with endearments. " **I** love you." Kiss. " **I** adore you." Kiss. " **I** want you." Kiss.

He left one out.

Blaine must've still been once removed from the reality of how much he _needed_ that kiss. You shouldn't let your happiness be defined by someone else. But then, he never could get his pronoun agreement right inside his head. He needed Kurt for that.

"And Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to call me. If you can ever 'relate' to Dave, call me. I will always answer."

Blaine nodded, because it was Kurt, and Kurt believed it, but Blaine had heard it all before. He bit the inside of his lip, hating that he'd somehow caused Kurt to make a promise Blaine knew no one could keep. He'd come to accept long ago that something about himself eventually made everything good turn bad. He couldn't do that to Kurt, to them. He'd be more careful, choose his words more wisely.

With a searching look that bounced back and forth between them, Blaine smoothed his hands over Kurt's biceps and dropped his gaze before linking their arms together and heading down the hall. He'd choose his words more wisely from then on.

Or just say nothing at all.

-TBC

AN1 : In our universe, Westerville is 2 hours away from Lima, but in Glee universe the Warblers hang out at the Lima Bean and Sam delivers pizza to Dalton, so it's apparently a lot closer, like Lima Heights adjacent close. Burt can drive there during the day, no problem. Remember, in Glee universe they're still playing high school football after Christmas, apparently, so I have no problem accepting that the geography is shifted as well.

AN2: The song, in case you didn't catch it, is "Cough Syrup" by Young the Giant


	2. Undetected

**Reverb** : Chapter Two

Blaine did everything he was supposed to up to and through Regionals. . . which they ROCKED, of course. His caffeine addiction was mostly kicked, temporarily replaced by an ibuprofen dependency, because caffeine withdrawal sucked. Hammering out his rap solo for the competition had provided ample outlet for the niggling perfectionist in him to knock off some jagged edges, and while the whole Karofsky situation was unfortunate and an unexpected source of stress, there'd been a tenuous truce and reconciliation with the Warblers as a result. His and Kurt's sex life wasn't exactly lacking either, but lately with the passing of Regionals and the halfway mark of the school year, Blaine was even more aware of just how soon that was going away. He couldn't really say if that was adding to or reducing his stress load. Still, two out of three wasn't bad.

Which was why it kinda pissed him off that Cooper still hadn't cancelled his visit. Not only did Blaine know for a fact that his brother was only coming because their mom asked him to make sure Blaine didn't miss his follow up appointment while she was out of town, but there was no way having Coop there wasn't going to crank the stress meter to ten.

Even Kurt picked up on it.

"Are you okay? You seem a little preoccupied?"

"Oh, well, my brother's in town. He's picking me up. Taking me out to lunch." He left out the part about how they were taking the rest of the afternoon off, too. Kurt really didn't need to know that his mother had grown an overprotective streak. After his eye surgery, the surgeon had only mentioned that one (maybe two) errant blips on the monitor as an afterthought. He'd been sure then, as Blaine was sure now, that it was just a normal reaction to stress and caffeine. No point escalating his mother's hysteria over nothing.

Though he definitely would've "accidentally" forgotten about that doctor's appointment if Cooper wasn't coming to babysit.

Then, as if on cue, there he was, Cooper Anderson, in the flesh, every bit as much of a self-centered jackass as Blaine remembered. And everyone was just as smitten with him as they always were. Maybe the six years separation since he'd last spent any significant time with his brother made Cooper a little easier to swallow, or maybe Blaine was just glad for the distraction, but their old Duran Duran mashup turned out to be way more awesome than Blaine remembered.

Or, at least it was, right up until they actually got to lunch. Blaine was a perfectionist, and Cooper was the reason. One comment about his performance being "pitchy" and "lacking theme," and Blaine was done with the B.S.

"Can we just cut the crap, Coop?" he huffed, his fork clattering onto the plate atop his barely touched salad. "I know you're only here because Mom asked you to come, so you can just save yourself the trouble and go back to L.A., now. I wouldn't want you to put yourself out."

Cooper straightened from where he was slouched against the side of the booth and turned in his seat to face Blaine, half a breadstick still in his hand, the other half still wadded up in his cheek. "Hey, hey, hey." He had to stop there to finish chewing.

"Don't hey, me," Blaine snapped. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the cushion.

Cooper swallowed with as much over practiced melodrama as everything else he did then motioned for the nice waitress and asked her to bring him another Coke in that same awful Irish accent he'd been practicing since they sat down.

"Dude, what's the scratch? I thought you were supposed to be working on your Zen."

"I am. And you being here is not helping!"

"C'mon! I'm trying to help. Laughter?" he flourished, "The best medicine?"

"And what is funny about you reminding me that every single thing I do is wrong.?"

"I wasn't trying to..." Cooper took a beat, nodded, and folded his hands. A long exhale later, and he either conceded or just elected to postpone that part of the conversation for later. "Never mind. You're right. You're right; Mom asked me to come here, because she's worried about you."

"I knew it."

"BUT, I wouldn't have come if I wasn't worried about you, too, bud."

"What? Why?" Blaine shrugged without uncrossing his arms. "I'm fine. I'm always fine."

"Are you?" Coop asked. "Because first there's the whole Dad situation..."

"That's not new, Coop. Dad hasn't really been around in forever. Mom and I do fine without him." He didn't say they shouldn't have to and that he wished everyone would just go ahead and call it what it was-separation. Instead, they played this stupid game where Dad was gone overseas, Syria of all places, and they all tried to pretend that Mom didn't tell him to go and that there was a distinct chance he'd never come back. The whole timing of his departure-while Blaine was still recovering from being attacked at his old school and struggling to catch up to the Dalton curriculum-had only complicated things. On top of that, Security made it so difficult to send or receive any type of communication that Blaine had given up trying, and judging by the lack of so much as a happy birthday phone call or a congratulations for landing the lead in West Side Story, so had his father.

It was probably a little pathetic that he'd half hoped the transfer from Dalton to McKinley might elicit _some_ kind of argument, because Blaine was not some needy brat who resorted to pissing off his parents for attention. He just also wasn't the type to accept that no news was good news. He didn't care, anyway. He had his own life and his own friends. He stayed busy, productive even. He definitely didn't miss any of his father's awkward, half-baked attempts at bonding. Really. He'd never been close with his Dad. No sweat off Blaine's back if that never changed. None.

Cooper didn't look convinced, "and then you had to have surgery for your eye."

"Which is now healed up just fine.

"And apparently there was a suicide attempt at your school."

"Not my school," Blaine corrected. "Next town over, and I only met the guy like twice, so..."

Cooper sighed. "Look. I know you think you're fine. You're tough. I get it. But since that doctor pointed out that you might have something else going on, Mom is worried that you're letting things get to you more than you're letting on. Just like…" his eyes dropped, and he pushed himself back in the seat. "She thought you'd talk to me since you won't talk to her. You need to be straight with us, Blaine, because we can't help you if you won't let us know what's going on."

"Nothing is going on with me, Coop. It's high school. It's stressful. And yeah, I'm a little pissed that Kurt's leaving for New York in the fall while I have to finish school here, but it's nothing like before."

"Are you sure?" Coop asked. "Because if you need to go back on the..."

"I don't need to go back on the meds! Is that really what Mom's worried about?"

"She's just worried. That's all. And she just wants to make sure you're taking care of yourself."

"I am. And honestly?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really happy most of the time. I have Kurt and, and New Directions. I box. I play the piano, sing. I have lots of outlets. I manage just fine. Although..."

"What?"

"I am a little pissed they made me give up coffee."

Cooper laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, let's get the all clear from the doctor, then, and I'll buy you coffee on the way home. Just a small one, though."

Blaine smirked and picked up his fork. "My brother, the enabler."

* * *

Several hours into the follow up, and not only had Blaine not had his coffee yet, but he was starting to suspect that the 'precautionary' tests he'd been told were only to 'rule out' anything were getting tedious and oddly specific. He'd been poked, prodded, x-rayed, attached to enough wires and leads to power a small city, and forced to run on a treadmill until he thought he would pass out. An endless parade of specialists, all with cardio-something attached to their names, looked at his monitors and scans, nodding and whispering amongst each other. None had really talked to Blaine himself aside from when he first came in.

"Any fainting or dizziness?"

"No."

"Shortness of breath?"

"No."

"Chest pains?"

"No."

"Blackouts?"

"No."

Was he anxious, depressed, stressed? Any significant changes in his life or diet... blah, blah, blah. After a while, they'd all seemed like just different ways of asking the same question, and really, how was Blaine supposed to know what was normal and what wasn't? Isn't that what the tests were for?

And all this because he'd had an 'episode' while he was under anesthesia for his eye surgery. He supposed if they found anything, he should send Sebastian a thank you note for making sure he got checked out.

At least Cooper was having a blast. He tried out a new accent on every doctor, nurse, or specialist, even had one convinced that he was a set of identical twins in which one twin was always conveniently in the bathroom or stepped out to use the phone.

Meanwhile, Kurt thought the Anderson brothers were catching a matinee performance of The Hunger Games and was currently lamenting over text the fact that they'd have to sustain an apocalyptic destruction of civilization in order for him to have a chance at becoming a Capitol stylist, the career for which he'd obviously been born. Blaine admitted that he hadn't cared for the selection of Josh Hutcherson in the role of Peeta, but that he was sort of crushing on him by the end of the movie.

"Blaine Anderson."

He and Cooper looked up from their phones in synchronicity, belying the fact that they were both at the end of their patience. The receptionist-Kayla, though her friends called her Kiss, as she'd informed Cooper when she got him to autograph the back of her name badge-smiled sweetly as she motioned down the hall.

"The doctor will see you now."

Cooper took both of her hands in his as they passed and leaned over the desk to say, "Thank you so much. It's been a delight, truly," and headed down the hall with a wink.

It occurred to Blaine as they sat down across from Dr. Schwartzmann that the name was familiar somehow, but he had been introduced to the man earlier, one amongst the seeming throngs, so that was probably the reason. They exchanged formalities, briefly. Blaine shook the cardiologist's hand and smoothed his palms over his thighs as he took a seat. The doctor lowered a pair of reading glasses into position from where they were pushed up on his forehead as he opened a manila folder.

"Well, we haven't got all the results back, just yet, but we do have some significant findings we can share at this time," he began. "As you know, the surgeon who performed your recent surgery made a note in your chart that you had an episode of what appeared to be an abnormal heart rhythm while you were under anesthesia. As I know you've been told, these kinds of things are not that out of the ordinary and can usually be attributed to anxiety, stress, caffeine, any number of everyday environmental factors."

"Yes, sir, but my family doctor recommended we get it checked out, anyway."

"And it's a good thing, you did." The doctor folded the cover of the file back underneath the rest of the folder and laid his hand atop the stack of papers before leaning back in his chair to meet their eyes. "We're still waiting on the genetic panel to come back, and I'll most likely recommend some more tests based on those results, but what we were able to determine today is that you are experiencing an arrhythmia. We were able to detect it during the exercise stress test and during the recovery afterward."

"So what does that mean, exactly?" Cooper this time. He had his elbows braced on the arms of the chair, fingers tip-to-tip at chin level, thumbs toward his chest.

"It doesn't always mean anything," Schwartzmann answered. "Most people experience some form of irregular heartbeat from time to time, and there are several forms of benign arrhythmia that are more an effect of an individual's anatomy than anything else. However, we were able to induce this arrhythmia more than once and to record that its duration was well into a range that would present a health risk if left untreated."

"What kind of risk, exactly?" Cooper asked.

"In the case of a ventricular tachycardia, which is what we're looking at here, the lower chambers of the heart start to beat too quickly. If the tachycardia goes on for an extended period of time, there's always the chance that it will lead to what we call a fibrillation. When that happens, the heart doesn't have a concerted beat at all, but quivers, effectively halting cardiac activity. Unfortunately, for a lot of people with this type of arrhythmia, the first sign anything is wrong is cardiac arrest."

Cooper's hands dropped to the arm rests. "So, now we're calling sudden death a 'potential health risk?'"

"Undiagnosed and untreated, that is a possibility," the doctor assuaged. "Under proper medical supervision, it's highly treatable."

"Well," Blaine had to clear his throat, "how, how do you treat it?"

"Ultimately, that decision will be made based on what we determine to be the root cause of the problem."

"What could that be?" Blaine asked.

"Most likely one of a number of congenital defects. We'll be able to pinpoint it better once we set up some additional testing. You indicated no family history, so that would tend to exclude some potential candidates, but like I said, we'll get the genetic panel back and coordinate our efforts based on that. We'll set you up with a Holter monitor, which is a portable heart monitoring system that you can wear for 48 hours to help us determine the frequency of your episodes and the conditions in your day to day activities that might cause them to occur. I'm sending your x-rays to Wexner along with your other results to see if they can schedule you for a cardiac MRI, possibly a biopsy. Once we have a definite diagnosis, our treatment plan will be tailored to that. For now, though, we'll get you set up with that Holter."

Nothing the doctor said was particularly difficult to understand or even all that grim, from what Blaine could make out, but...

Seeming to take in the shell-shocked expressions from the other side of the desk, the doctor gave a pinched smile and closed the file. "Look. Most likely this is one of any number of conditions that is readily managed and treated with medication. You should consider yourself lucky that we've found it. These types of arrhythmias are mostly only dangerous in their undetected phase. Now that we're aware of it, we have the upper hand."

Upper hand or not, Blaine couldn't escape the feeling that he'd just been punched in the gut.

* * *

Despite the doctor's reassurance that finding this condition was the best possible thing that could have happened to him, Blaine couldn't help but notice that he'd gone into the office feeling fine and hadn't really felt fine since. Only part of his discomfort could be directly attributed to the ridiculous spiderweb of leads and wires currently taped to his chest. Hidden under several layers of clothing or not, the Holter monitor made him glaringly self-conscious. He was sure everyone knew it was there, and he really didn't want anyone finding out there was anything going on with him. Not just yet. He wanted some time to come to terms with it himself, first. Even Cooper had agreed he deserved at least that much privacy and had refrained from mentioning anything about their brother bonding day.

The worst part about the monitor-okay the second worst part, since the absolute worst was trying to keep Kurt at arm's length without him getting suspicious-was the journaling. He was supposed to write down everything he did and everything he felt while he did it. According to the tech who'd fitted him with the device, if he had the type of abnormal heartbeat the doctor said he had, then there was a good chance he'd felt it already and just hadn't known what it was he was feeling. Heck, he was a seventeen year old boy. There was so much going on in his body, his own hormones were probably having palpitations. But now that he knew what to notice-dizziness, shortness of breath, chest pain, among other things-he kind of felt like that all the time.

Being with Kurt made his heart race and breath stutter. So did whaling on a song, perfecting a dance step, and pounding the crap out of his punching bag. That was his reverb. He kind of lived for that feeling, tuned into it. What was he supposed to feel like if that was wrong somehow?

Mostly, he was pissed because he couldn't use the shoulder strap on his messenger bag and had to carry the damned thing like a briefcase.

And when the hell were they going to give him back his coffee?

"Why are you writing this down?"

Maybe he actually wasn't pissed at Cooper for a change, but his so-called Master Class on acting was a joke. Blaine didn't know how anyone could be buying that crap. Pointing? Really?

"That's not true at all. That's terrible advice." Blaine knew when he said it that Cooper would most likely have a scathing, belittling comeback prepared and waited for it with arms crossed.

Cooper said nothing.

Later, in his NCIS scene, Blaine was sure Cooper gave him that line in retaliation for his earlier comments. Because really, how was anyone supposed to say, "There's a rumor that Sgt. Pembroke was a transvestite," with any kind of conviction? No amount of finger pointing was going to save that one, so of course Blaine opted to leave it out.

"Scene. Scene. Good work, buddy."

And here Blaine had thought they were doing NCIS, not the Twilight Zone. Picking up his bag by the stupid handle, he made the dramatic choice to exit stage left.

Cooper made the dramatic choice to follow him down the hall and ambush him with a hug in front of the library. It pissed Blaine off that he really needed that right then.

Blaine lost track of when exactly this whole medical crisis of his started to feel less like a bump in the road and more like the road had disappeared altogether, leaving him in a holding pattern while his satnav recalculated.

He could remember the day Cooper went back to L.A., could remember the flight number and departure gate like he was the one boarding the plane. The afternoon his mother had to cancel all her appointments to drive him to Wexner for the cardiac MRI was a Wednesday. It rained. The day he started taking the beta blocker, they served fruit salad in the cafeteria, and though he'd eaten it probably a dozen times before, that was the day he realized it had grapefruit in it.

He was suddenly hyper aware of every flutter in his chest-whether it was a palpitation or just acid reflux-every hitch in his breath, how cold his hands felt.

But he forgot that, that Wednesday he went to Wexner, he was supposed to meet Kurt to look at sheet music for his NYADA audition. The day they finally, effing _finally_ got a diagnosis, he missed Booty Camp to make the appointment, and Kurt had been so excited to show Blaine his newly polished jazz shoes now that he'd found peach colored shoe polish.

When Chandler was blowing up Kurt's phone, Blaine wasn't so much surprised that it was happening as he was that it had _been_ happening for days.

Maybe he should've just confessed to Kurt, then, about what was really going on with him, but right then, he didn't feel like he owed anyone anything, least of all the one he was trying to protect. So, if he got pissed and said some things he totally meant, in anger, well, that happened, and maybe it was for the best, but he wasn't sorry. Sorry was just one thing too many, and Blaine was too damned tired to pick that up.

Except, the day he was diagnosed, as they were leaving Dr. Schwartzmann's office, not really looking anywhere but inward, he and his mother bumped headlong into Burt Hummel in the waiting room. It wasn't like they were at the dentist's office. And his mother was a big girl. She wouldn't need to take her kid out of school during lunch to make her own appointment. Besides, the receptionist had just handed them the card with his next appointment written on it next to Blaine's name.

"Hey, Mr. Hummel."

"Blaine..." and something about the set of his jaw, slightly exaggerated bob of his Adam's apple said he was barely keeping it together.

Blaine was sorry for that.

* * *

"Brutal honesty is the cornerstone of any relationship. I want you to feel like this is a safe space for you to air your differences." And really, there was no way Ms. Pillsbury had any idea what she was getting herself into. The bubble that had been rising in Blaine's chest for days, chased by the one that had been building there for months, had lodged in his throat, the membrane surrounding it already stretched to transparency.

Blaine was nothing if not well-rehearsed in the art of hanging onto the last tenuous threads of control, though, and he wasn't quite ready to let go just yet. What he wanted to say was that he'd really rather say nothing, and that he hated being put on the spot, that he hadn't really processed how he felt about things just yet and didn't really have the energy to worry about how Kurt would process them, too.

Instead, he ranted about Kurt's habit of snapping his fingers at waitstaff.

What he wanted to say was that he really wished he'd put two and two together sooner and realized that he'd recognized the name of his heart specialist because he'd seen the card on the Hummel's refrigerator door no less than a dozen different times. If he'd remembered Kurt play fighting off an afternoon kiss battle/study break in the kitchen by hiding behind the freezer door, or if Blaine had actually taken that moment to notice the collection of business cards and emergency numbers on the door instead of leering at Kurt's still visible ass below the door, maybe he wouldn't have been blindsided when he bumped into Burt Hummel coming out of his last doctor's appointment, his hands full of pamphlets and prescriptions for beta blockers. If he'd paid attention, maybe he wouldn't be obligated now to tell Kurt what was going on before Burt could do it.

Instead, he told Kurt to stop putting bronzer in his moisturizer.

He wanted to admit that he'd been secretly relieved that Burt hadn't bought his hastily made up cover story and had instead, in true Burt Hummel fashion said, "If there's anything you need, kid, anything, anytime, you know where to find me." He wanted to say it made him feel better, less alone than he had since Cooper went back to L.A.

Instead, it just reminded him that Kurt was leaving, too.

And that was the ice that froze the bubble in his chest, left it to shatter, the shards raking their way out, his voice choked and halting.

"It's like New York is the only thing we talk about now, Kurt, and it's like you can't even wait to get out of here. How's that supposed to make me feel? In a few months, you're going to be gone... and I'm going to be right here. By myself."

"You're right. I have been distant," he continued, unable to stop the hemorrhaging, "and I'm sorry, but I've had some things going on that I wasn't comfortable talking about. I've been keeping them from you and telling myself it was because I didn't want to distract you from your NYADA audition, because I couldn't live with myself if I did anything to keep you from reaching your dreams."

Kurt leaned over and tilted Blaine's chin up to meet his gaze. "Oh, honey, you can tell me anything. I love you, and I thought you knew that all of my dreams begin and end with you. New York, NYADA, all of it only matters because I know you're going to be right there with me someday. I could never do any of it without you."

"I love you so much."

"I love you, too." Blaine let himself be pulled into Kurt's hug, let it linger a little longer as he solidified his resolve, "Now what were you afraid to tell me?"

Blaine sucked in a damp breath, blinking rapidly as he reached for his bag and unzipped it. The pamphlets he pulled out were the same ones his doctor had handed him once they finally had a name for his condition. "They found something, when I had my eye surgery. Coop came back to take me for some tests while Mom was out of town." He slid the brochures up onto Ms. Pillsbury's desk next to the jar of lotion with the cow spots on it, the title partially obscured by the glare from the overhead light.

Arrhythmogenic Right Ventricular Cardiomyopathy: ARVC

"I have a heart condition." He noted the tremble in Kurt's hand as he reached to pick up the paper and rushed to relieve some of the tension. "But before you freak out, you should know that I'm not sick, okay? It's a condition, and they can control it with medication for decades. Once it's diagnosed, almost no one dies from this."

He knew he'd said too much when the tremble in Kurt's hand worked its way up to his chin, his eyes shimmering as he said, "Almost?" Then, "Oh, Blaine..." and Blaine was wrapped in Kurt's arms, both of them shaking too hard to speak anymore.

-TBC

Thanks for reading. You matter.


	3. Collaboration

"Blaine, are you even listening to me? How can you just lie there and watch a movie, when my NYADA audition is in three days? I don't have a song, a costume, haven't arranged for accompaniment..."

Blaine glanced up from his sprawl against the pillows on Kurt's bed just far enough to see over the screen of the laptop where it was propped on his stomach. At least Kurt was finally sitting at the end of the bed, knees curled to the side. Watching him pace back and forth made Blaine dizzy. Actually, that was probably the Atenolol, but Kurt's pacing hadn't been helping.

"Okay, first, I'm not watching a movie. I'm finding you a song, which is what I thought we were here for. Second, this would be going a lot faster if you didn't have fifty tabs open in this browser."

Kurt, mouth poised to continue with his rant, buttoned his lip abruptly, a sure sign that he hadn't meant for Blaine to see that. Not that Blaine needed to see the open WebMD and PubMed tabs to know that Kurt was spending hours researching ARVC instead of working on his NYADA music. He'd known that would happen. Kurt was detail oriented to a fault and had probably constructed a thousand points of attack battle plan for dealing with Blaine's condition.

Which Blaine was glad to let him do as long as Blaine didn't have to sit through the Power Point presentation. He had better things to do, like finding the perfect song or songs for Kurt's NYADA audition.

With a smirk, Blaine jerked his head toward the pillow beside him. "C'mere."

Kurt grinned and moved to stalk up the bed on his hands and knees, but then sat back. "Wait, wait, wait. We can't. Nope. I'm not going to let you distract me from the task at hand, no matter how adorable you look with your ridiculously long eyelashes and your come hither stares."

"I think I actually said, 'c'mere. No stares hither or thither were entailed. So, while I like where your mind went right then, I was actually being serious. Now, c'mon. Let me show you what I've got."

"Oh-okay, but sit up. If you're not actually conducting some salacious plot to mess me up, I've got to get three more hours out of this hair. Friday night dinner. You're staying, right?"

"Huh," Blaine pressed his thumb between his eyes to squash down the dizziness as he moved from lying down to sitting up. "Oh, yeah. Lasagna. Wouldn't miss it."

"You okay? Dizzy? Is it your..." Kurt's voice hitched up an octave and cranked toward a thousand words per minute in the span of about three seconds.

Blaine raised his index finger to Kurt's eye line, waggled it back and forth to get his attention, and drew his gaze to the open file on the computer screen. Only once Kurt's eyes were no longer boring into the side of Blaine's head, did he offer, "Side effect of the medication. But it's only when I'm changing positions from sitting up to lying down or vice versa, so it's nothing. That, and my hands are always cold. End of discussion. Now, tell me what you think."

He could feel Kurt take in a breath to press for more information before conceding to let it go and check out what Blaine had been working on.

"Wait, is that what I think it is?"

"You said you couldn't pick a song. So, I thought..."

"A medley! Blaine, you're a genius!" Blaine barely managed to keep the computer from crashing to the floor as Kurt flung himself into his chest for a hug.

"It's not that much of a stretch," Blaine said, hugging back. "We do mashups all the time in Glee."

Kurt sat back against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder with Blaine and snatched the computer into his own lap. "Yeah, but that's, like, two songs. This is... Blaine this is epic. Can we even pull this off in three days?"

"Sure. I don't see why not. You've seen this movie a million times, so you already know the songs. Anyway, the arrangement might be tough, but I can do that and some of the secondary vocals. We can recruit from New Directions for the chorus, and you can wear the tux you were going to wear for the Phantom piece."

"Ohh, I'm glad you said tux. I was afraid you wanted me to... I mean, this is the Satine part, right?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, I thought I'd be Christian... NYADA's not going to frown on a little gender-bending, right? And you did say you wanted the big romantic roles."

"Of course! Oh, Blaine! This is amazing! I haven't been this excited for a performance since you and I did 'Candles' together for Regionals. We should get practicing right away."

Blaine adopted his best pout, which Kurt picked up on immediately.

"What? Are you okay? Do you feel dizzy again?"

"No, no... I mean, not _yet_ , anyway." And then, because Kurt just looked confused, he tilted his chin up, and turned, eyes fixed on Kurt's lips. "But we could work on that, you know, unless you're really worried about your hair."

"I have a hat," Kurt squeaked, lunging in for a kiss, breaking away, breathless, "I will need to borrow some lip balm, though."

-#-

Considering he'd managed to dodge Kurt's fifty open tabs of research and come up with the perfect NYADA audition piece, Blaine considered himself lucky that Burt at least waited until after dinner to poke the sleeping bear.

Finn had fortunately made Friday night plans, and Carole was in the middle of the latest Tom Patterson, which she was reading in bed to avoid the disparaging comments Kurt insisted on making about how the guy didn't even write his own books. So, while Kurt was off fitting his tux for his upcoming audition, Burt and Blaine cracked a diet soda and a low calorie Gatorade, respectively. Blaine asked for diet soda, but Kurt told him he needed to mind his electrolytes and gave him the awful Lemon Lime sports drink, instead. He suspected it might actually be anti-freeze but took it anyway, painfully aware that Burt was watching the entire exchange with a thoughtful expression on his face.

Blaine sank a little deeper into the couch cushions as soon as Kurt left the room, arms crossed over his chest, and waited. He didn't think he could distract Burt as easily as he always could Kurt (especially since his distraction of choice was sex). His mouth was suddenly dry, prompting him to forget himself and take a swallow of the Gatorade, forcing it down with a grimace before screwing the top back on and pushing it as far away from himself on the coffee table as he could possibly get it.

Burt raised an eyebrow. "Electrolytes, huh? I see it's started already."

"Yeah," Blaine conceded. "I knew he was going to do this. Hopefully, the newness of this whole thing will wear off soon, and then he'll realize I'm fine and find something else to freak out over."

"I wouldn't count on it," Burt chuckled. "Kurt's pretty tenacious." He took a sip of his soda and turned his gaze inward as he swallowed. "So, Kurt's mother henning aside, what does your doctor have to say?"

Blaine shrugged. "How much has Kurt told you?"

Burt crossed his arms. "Well, you know he likes to fixate on the absolute worst possible outcome so he can be prepared. I want to know what the actual professionals have told you."

"Um, well, it's a hereditary condition. We don't have any family history, but that just means no one got diagnosed. My heart muscle is slowly converting from normal muscle tissue to something that doesn't conduct electricity as well, so it doesn't always keep a steady rhythm. From what they can tell, the irregularity mostly occurs when I exercise. They put me on beta blockers to keep my heart rate down, which they hope will decrease the number of episodes I have."

"And I assume you're actually taking them."

"Yeah, I mean," a shrug, "yeah, they did this whole counseling thing when they prescribed it and made it very clear that you can't suddenly stop taking them without asking for bad, bad things to happen. The side effects kind of suck, though. It makes no sense to me that they give me a medication that makes me feel sick in order to treat a condition that I don't even notice I have."

"Well, just because you feel fine now, doesn't mean you should just take it for granted that you will tomorrow," Burt pointed out. "I mean, look at what happened to me. One minute I thought I was fine, and the next I was in the hospital missing days out of my life, and Kurt was almost an orphan. Believe me, if I could've prevented that, I would have."

Blaine sat up straighter, leaning forward, elbows on knees. "Oh, I know, Mr. Hummel, and believe me, the last thing I want is Kurt to get hurt because of this. That's why it was so hard to tell him in the first place." His gaze fell to the floor, fingers peaked together, thumbs warring. "But with all the restrictions the doctors want me to follow, there was no way he wouldn't notice and probably worry worse than he would if I was just straight with him. Still not really cool with everyone else finding out, though."

"What kind of restrictions we talking about?" Burt's expression tightened a little, from just guys making conversation to the face of a man who was putting pieces together and not liking the picture they were forming.

"Um," Blaine's fingers splayed, palms dropping onto the thighs of his jeans, "no caffeine, careful with alcohol, don't sweat the small stuff... don't really sweat at all if I can help it." The last came out quieter, like he probably should've breathed one more time before speaking but just wanted to get it over with.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Strenuous exercise is out." Blaine's eyes met Burt's for a second. He couldn't take the way his gaze was boring into the top of his head, but it was even harder to take dead on. He broke it up into smaller chunks, looking back and forth between Burt and the floor, as if the meaning behind the gaze would get lost in the shuffle and he could go back to denying any of this was real.

"But you're cleared to dance with the Glee club, though, right?"

Blaine feigned intense interest in the news feed on the television, not making eye contact when he said, "Not really. They definitely said no to the boxing, and I should never, ever take up swimming, but I might have downplayed the amount of running around the stage that's actually involved in show choir."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Probably not, but I'm not letting them take that away from me. It's like," Blaine sank back into the couch again, "when I'm performing? That's when I feel alive, you know? I can't just give that up. Especially not now. Nationals is just a few weeks away."

"Can't Schuester tone down your choreography a little bit?"

"Maybe, if I asked him to," Blaine shrugged, "except I'm not a soloist, so I can't do the 'park and bark,' and I haven't actually told Mr. Schuester about my situation. Ms. Pillsbury knows, but I don't think she's allowed to tell him. If she has, he hasn't let on. And besides, the choreography for Nationals is really starting to come together. I can't ask them to change it now."

"I think they'd understand. Your health is more important than a show choir competition."

Blaine squirmed and crossed his arms a little tighter than they already were. "I just... I just don't want everyone knowing about this. It's different with Kurt. I don't ever want to have to feel like I need to keep anything from him. But everyone else? There's nothing anyone can do about it, so I don't see the point of making them worry."

Kurt chose that moment to glide down the staircase and into the family room with a flourish. "What do you think? I ditched the cape, so I might have to take in the jacket a little in the back, but I'm feeling the white bow tie."

Burt and Blaine managed to turn appraising gazes his way, despite the interruption. "I think it's perfect," Blaine offered. "I wouldn't change a thing."

"Really?" Kurt asked. "I mean, is it befitting of Moulin Rouge, though? Does it need, I dunno, maybe some sparkly cufflinks or a diamond boutonnière? They are a girl's best friend, after all." He pushed his hips forward to get a more panoramic view of the whole ensemble and looked down at himself appraisingly, arms outstretched.

"No," Blaine said, "The diamond in this performance is supposed to be your voice. We'll put the sparkle in with the stage lighting."

Kurt straightened, contemplating for a moment, then nodded. "You're absolutely right."

"Of course I am," Blaine smirked. He was then nearly decapitated as Kurt hugged him from behind the couch.

"Mmmm, how am I so lucky?" Kurt dashed back up the stairs without waiting for an answer, leaving the room conspicuously silent.

Burt couldn't help but smile, shaking his head as the last of the footsteps faded on the stairs. He didn't waste time turning his gaze on Blaine, though, clearing his throat as he pushed himself back in his seat. "So, does he know about the boxing and the dancing?"

Blaine shifted slightly sideways, suddenly off kilter again. "I'm sure he suspects, given how much research he's been doing on his own. He knew I had to give up caffeine without me telling him, so I suspect he knows and hasn't brought it up yet. We've only been doing choreography in small chunks while it's still being hammered out. I haven't been jumping on any furniture or anything," he ended with a huff.

Burt must have sensed that Blaine wasn't really open to suggestions at the moment, though his expression clearly let on that he didn't approve of how Blaine was dealing with things, he didn't dish out a reprimand. Instead he asked, "So, you just stay on the meds indefinitely, then? Is that the last line of treatment?"

Blaine's jaw tightened. "There's no cure, if that's what you're getting at. It will just keep progressing for the rest of my life, but the meds will hopefully keep the symptoms at bay for a while."

"And if they don't?"

"Most people with my condition get an internal defibrillator implanted to shock the heart back into a normal rhythm when it gets irregular. They think I'm a good candidate for the implant. Because of my age, and the way my heart responds to exercise and recovery, I'm in a high risk group."

"High risk of what, exactly?"

"Um," Blaine couldn't resist squirming even deeper between the cushions, fingernails digging into his elbows. "If the arrhythmia gets bad enough, my heart could just stop. That usually only happens to people who don't know they have a condition, though. They find it, you know, after..."

"When they're dead," Burt said bluntly.

"Well, yeah."

"That's exactly what happened to me, you know."

"Your heart attack?"

Burt nodded, soda can balanced on his knee. "Yup. Everyone thinks I had a heart attack, but what I had was an arrhythmia that caused my heart to stop. That's why I was in a coma, because my brain didn't get any oxygen."

"Wait, but you diet and exercise, now. Isn't that...?" Blaine wasn't an expert, but he did know the way you treated a heart attack differed from the way you treated an arrhythmia.

"So, after they did all their tests, they found out my arrhythmia was probably caused by a virus. Once they treated the virus, the probability of it recurring went to almost zero, but they did find out my blood pressure and cholesterol put me at high risk for having an actual heart attack if I didn't change. So, that was actually good news. Those are things we can fix. In fact, I'm probably in better shape now than I ever have been."

"Wow." Blaine didn't know what to say. "That's great. I mean, it must be a..." What was the word he was looking for? Blessing? "a relief to not have that looming over your head, at least." Which probably didn't come out right, because it wasn't cool that Burt had almost died, but Blaine would give anything to be told his arrhythmia could be fixed so he could get out from under that pending avalanche instead of just watching the snow pile up like the outcome was inevitable.

Burt seemed to understand. "Hey, if it makes you feel better, I probably loved bacon as much as you love coffee, and I hate any exercise that doesn't involve lifting a fork, so I didn't exactly get a free pass. But I do thank my lucky stars every day that I can mostly put that behind me. I'd trade places with you if I could." Burt coughed into his hand and turned his gaze, however blankly, to the television, a physical changing of mental gears. "So, you're considering getting one of those internal shocker gadgets?"

"It's kind of a huge step. I'd like to put it off as long as possible. Besides the surgery and the recovery, there's just the knowledge that there's something in your chest that can electrocute you at any time. It kinda freaks me out, to be honest, and I can't help but think I felt fine before they found this, and I still feel fine, so it seems like that would be jumping the gun."

"Uh-huh. I get that," Burt conceded. He took another sip of his soda still focusing on the television screen as if to read the ticker at the bottom. "But isn't that kind of the point? To keep you feeling fine so you don't have to go through what I did?"

Luckily, Kurt stormed back into the room like ball lightning and pulled Blaine off the couch and toward the stairs before he had to answer. "We need to start working on arrangements. We only have three days!"

Glad for the reprieve, Blaine made a mental note to avoid being left alone in a room with Burt for the foreseeable future. He'd already had the same discussions with his mom and Cooper. If they could respect that Blaine needed more time to process, then Burt would just have to do the same.

-#-

Three days really wasn't enough, not to do everything the way it deserved to be done, exactly the way Blaine imagined it. Even working through the night, his fingers numb from pounding out the arrangement, adding a layer here, stripping it down there, and ironing over every chord and dissolve until the transitions were seamless didn't assuage the little niggling flicker of doubt every time he had to settle for something less than what his vision entailed. It had to be perfect. For Kurt, it needed to be perfect. To make Kurt proud...

He hated having to make do-make do with only a violin and a cello for strings, because he just couldn't physically produce sheet music for the entire string section he heard in his head, make do with filling in extra parts on the piano, his own sheet music less important, since he committed it to memory after the second time through.

He had plenty of volunteers to be in the Chorus until he realized they had only one or two actual lines. In the end, he borrowed a page from the Warbler playbook and used the voices to fill in some of the missing instruments. Sam, Artie, Puck, Tina and Santana hardly counted as a Chorus, but he couldn't chance overpowering Kurt, and they were mostly amenable to Blaine's constant edits and demands. Mostly. He was pretty sure Puck and Santana were plotting to cut the strings on his piano, but they were waiting until after the audition, for Kurt's sake.

If this thing didn't go off without a hitch, Blaine would have a whole lot of retribution coming down the pipe. Rachel had already cornered him in the hallway twice, begging him, for Kurt's sake, to stop this madness and let Kurt do "Music of the Night." It was a sure thing. An uninspired, boring sure thing that wasn't right for Kurt in the least, but sure. Blaine heard her out, and he could understand where she was coming from, especially since they were keeping this whole thing under wraps until the audition. Her heart was in the right place, but she had no way of knowing that what they had planned would blow the Phantom piece out of the water. No one knew for sure, since they were all only given their own parts to rehearse. Only Kurt and Blaine knew how all the pieces fit together, and Kurt trusted Blaine to make it work.

If Blaine had to miss a couple night's sleep and go temporarily off his 'no coffee' diet, it would be worth it to make Kurt proud, to prove that his faith in Blaine wasn't misplaced. It would be worth it when everyone saw Kurt the way Blaine saw him.

And then the world would take Kurt away to NYADA.

But for now, Blaine had three days to immerse in his vision of Kurt and sharing that vision. If he drowned in it a little himself, then so be it.

"Everything looks amazing," Kurt said, twirling once across the stage to get the full effect of the hundreds of strings of lights, the gazebo covered in heavy drapery and surrounded by decorative fence panels, all illuminated with lamps shaped like giant flowers. He almost banged into the piano, which was closer to the front of the stage than usual and off center to the left. The drum set and the two lowly string instruments all the way to the back of the stage were hidden with a sheer black curtain dappled in white paint like the night sky. Glowing blacklights reflected off the fabric. They didn't quite elicit the image of Paris at night, but passed for a romantic, if slightly unearthly cityscape, nonetheless. It was as close as they were going to get to a Bohemian Paris with only three days preparation.

"I'm glad you like it." Blaine caught Kurt on his second pass across the stage, straightened the white bow tie, and ran his hands down the sleeves of Kurt's jacket. For all the exceptions and substitutions he'd had to make for this production, Kurt was the one thing that matched Blaine's vision exactly. He was perfect, the blacklights bringing a glow to his face that was almost surreal, the twinkling lights a sparkle to his eyes. "I want it to be perfect for you."

His own tuxedo felt a little too taut across the shoulders, tie just a smidge too tight as Kurt wrapped his arms around Blaine's waist. "Of course it's perfect," Kurt breathed into his ear. "I can never repay you. I know how hard you've been working."

"You don't have to repay me. I did it because I love you, and because the world deserves to see just how amazing you are."

Kurt's breath ghosted the back of Blaine's neck as he pulled them into a hug, swaying slightly with excitement and gratitude. "Mmm, thank you, but if I'm amazing, it's because you know how to bring out the best in me. You make me even better than I thought I could be." He leaned back enough so they were face to face, blue eyes searching Blaine's. "You worked so hard on all this, though. Have you even slept? You're not making yourself sick are you?"

"I am tired," Blaine admitted with a lopsided smile, "but it will be worth it to see it all come together." He gave Kurt's shoulders a quick squeeze and pulled away. "I think I'm more nervous than you are." It was true. His hands were actually shaking.

"You know what's crazy?" Kurt asked.

"What?"

"I'm really not that nervous at all. This all just seems so right, somehow, like I _can't_ screw it up."

"So, not like you're going to forget the words, or you're going to sing and nothing's going to come out?" Blaine smirked.

"No!" Kurt laughed. "Which is saying something, since Rachel has just informed me that our NYADA adjudicator is none other than Carmen Tibideaux herself." He blanched a little after saying it out loud, but kept his bright, if somewhat stilted, smile in place.

"Well, you know what that means, don't you?"

"What?"

"It means she was so impressed by your application that she had to come and see you for herself. She just knows you're going to blow her away."

"Actually, Rachel said she's auditioning all of this year's freshman class, but I like your explanation better."

From the wings, Rachel gestured for their attention and then pointed toward the back of the auditorium, mouthing, "She's here!"

Kurt moved to dash off the stage, but Blaine caught him by the sleeve and spun him around.

A knowing wink and a quick peck on the cheek, "We've got this," Blaine whispered, releasing Kurt to wait in the wings with Rachel. Sliding onto the piano bench, he felt his confidence slip for a second, shut his eyes and exhaled before taking inventory of the rest of the cast and musicians to make sure everyone was on their marks and ready.

Carmen Tibideaux entered the auditorium with a regal sort of presence that charged the air around her and sent a spark through the entire theater as she took her seat. She wasted very little time organizing herself before leaning into the microphone. "Kurt Hummel."

Kurt met Blaine's eyes across the stage for a brief moment, then stepped out of the wings, gliding as if pulled on rails. His first, "Hello," was a little breathy, but as he continued, he seemed to regain some of the Kickass Kurt composure from earlier. "I'm Kurt Hummel. Today I'm going to be singing a, a medley of songs that were used in the jukebox musical, Moulin Rouge. This arrangement was prepared for me by Blaine Anderson." Kurt gestured to Blaine who nodded discreetly. "Blaine will be joining me on vocals for one verse, if- if that's okay." He didn't pose it as a question but waited anyway for a response.

That's when Blaine noticed that the back of the auditorium had started to fill up. The rest of the New Directions tiptoed into the far seats along with Burt and Carole and pretty much anyone who'd helped put together the set and music in the last three days, no doubt as anxious for the big reveal as they were to support Kurt and Rachel.

Carmen seemed to contemplate for a second before nodding her head, just once, decisive and final.

"Thank you," Kurt acknowledged with a half bow, then backed up to his mark, bowed his head and waited for the music to start.

 _Never knew I could feel like this._

 _Like I've never seen the sky before._

 _Want to vanish inside your kiss._

 _Every day I'm loving you more and more._

He started behind the piano, singing to Blaine's back as Blaine accompanied, nodding his head to cue the rest of the musicians. Kurt circled around through the decorated fence, leaned up against the gazebo, face turned up to the blacklight cityscape.

 _Listen to my heart_

 _Can you hear it sing?_

 _Come back to me and forgive everything._

 _Seasons may change, winter to spring,_

 _ **(Come what may)**_

 _But I love you,_

 _Until the end of time._

The chorus joined in, vocalizations creating a swell in the music bolstered by a crescendoing cymbal flourish. Kurt twirled around the gazebo, wrapping and unwrapping himself in one of the long bolts of fabric cloaking the structure.

 _If I should die this very moment_

 _ **(Come what may!)**_

 _I wouldn't fear. For I've never known completeness, like being here._

 _ **(Come what may!)**_

Blaine's descant of, "Come what may," layered over the music, just the echo of an idea, led the listener over the changes between the songs as the eyes stayed on Kurt.

 _Inside my heart is breaking,_

 _My makeup may be flaking but my smile still stays on._

 **Chorus:All I know**

 **All I've done**

 **All I've felt**

 **Was leading to this**

Kurt turned to face the chorus in the balcony above the theater to his left, face longing.

 _One day I'll fly away_

 _Leave all this to yesterday._

 **Chorus:All I've known**

 **All I've done**

 **All I've felt**

 **Was leading this**

 _Why live life from dream to dream_

 _And dread the day when dreaming ends_?

 **Chorus: Show must go on! Show must go on!**

The chorus boomed as the music built, all the songs present somewhere simultaneously in the chords, the melody capable of splintering off in any direction with the next progression, forcing the viewer to follow Kurt, to find his focus, which thread he would follow next.

 _I'll top the bill_

 _I'll earn the kill_

 _I have to find the will to carry on_

 _ **(Come what may!)**_

 _Til the end of time_

 _Til the earth stops turning_

 _ **(Come what may!)**_

 _Gonna love you til the seas run dry_

 _ **(Come what may!)**_

Even as the music reached a fever pitch, Kurt's movements never hurried, just a quiet, deliberate turn, a floating change of momentum, the picture of searching and being pulled along, one following his heart wherever it led.

 _Wrapped in the warmth of you_

 _Loving every breath of you_

 _Why live life from dream to dream_

 _I've found the one I've waited for_

 _The one I've waited for_

 _ **(I will love you)**_

 _The one I've waited for_

 _ **(Until my dying day..)**_

Suddenly the music dropped off to a few plinking chords on the piano, at which point Blaine slid off the bench allowing Brad to slide in and take over. Kurt's constant meandering journey about the stage found a new direction as he glided toward Blaine.

 _Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place_

 _Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace._

 _Suddenly my life doesn't seem such a waste_

 _It all revolves around you._

Their voices blended together as they danced around each other, fading closer, then away, touching briefly only to slide apart. The music built up once more, an ebb and flow of tension looking for a release.

 _And there's no mountain too high_

 _No river too wide._

 _Sing out this song, and I'll be there by your side_

 _Storm clouds may gather,_

 _Stars may collide._

 _But I love you..._

 _Until the end of time_

 _Come what may_

 _Come what may_

 _I will love you_

Just when the music seemed to suggest they crash together, fireworks and sparks, it dropped away suddenly, and they just folded together, tender and quiet, hand to elbow, head to shoulder, all the space finally gone from between them. Journey's end.

 _I will love you..._

They stayed that way, swaying, past the point when the music had died away, replaced by the applause and catcalls from their friends and family in the theater. Blaine was content to stand there and be held, let it all sink in, the days and nights of work, the way it all melded together in the end, the scent of Kurt in his nose, Kurt pulsing under his fingers and against his chest. Blaine was so proud of him.

But there was still one opinion to be voiced, and on that day, it was the only one that really mattered. Blaine stepped back, hand on Kurt's shoulder as they turned to face Carmen Tibideaux.

"Thank you," she said, and returned to her writing.

That couldn't be it. Sure, it was a little rough around the edges. They'd needed more strings, and the Chorus could have been better utilized to fill in the instrumental parts, but Kurt had nailed it. Blaine could barely resist the urge to kiss him senseless right then, every nerve ending in his body an open synapse and every one sparking with Kurt. There was no way Tibideaux watched that and didn't see Kurt for every amazing beautiful thing he was and was going to be. No way she would dismiss him with just a thank you.

With her head tilted down, pencil working over the paper in front of her, it was impossible to read Carmen's expression, but Kurt's was too familiar, a scene from a recurring nightmare. Eyes round and lips slightly parted, he looked like the world was casting a secret ballot against him, the anonymous hate as heavy and brutal as a wrecking ball. The longer Madame Tibideaux said nothing, the more Kurt looked ready to run off the stage.

Though he was technically dismissed and not auditioning himself, Blaine stayed, his hand anchored in Kurt's.

"That was..." Carmen's pen stopped scratching, and she finally looked up, "inspired. I commend you, young man, for making such a bold choice."

The air cleared the way ozone scrubbed away the last of a summer storm, each breath like heat lightning over a field of fireflies.

"Thank you, Ms. Tibideaux." Kurt nodded and bent slightly at the knee and waist, half bow, half curtsy.

"Tell me about your inspiration, Mr. Hummel."

Suddenly feeling conspicuous, Blaine patted Kurt on the shoulder and slid over to the piano bench.

Kurt straightened, standing on his own, tall. "I-I suppose you don't want me to say that I just really liked that movie," he joked half-heartedly.

"That's correct. I do not," Carmen said. "Song selection and interpretation is as much a part of the audition criteria as the vocal performance. This is all you give me to judge your potential not only as a musician but as a performer who can graduate from our program and find work. What is this piece supposed to tell me about what you see in your future?"

Blaine could tell the moment Kurt seized on what she was asking, the moment he knew the right thing to say as he blinked and took a step backward, braced one hand on the piano, the other smoothing over the seam of his pants.

"That's actually exactly what I was struggling with," he admitted. " I couldn't pick a song." Kurt's gaze dropped, turning inward slightly before he met Carmen's eyes dead on. "I have hundreds that I can sing, and I know I can sing them well, but they're all songs written for somebody who isn't me, roles I will never get to play no matter how well I know the music."

"Countertenors are traditionally difficult to place in leading roles," Carmen agreed.

"Yes, and when I started realizing that, I did what I always do." He glanced to the back of the theater where his dad was still standing, cap in hand. "I talked to my dad. I wondered if I was wasting my time trying to pursue this career if I was never going to be right for the roles I wanted to play. And my dad," a huffed smile, like he couldn't believe his luck, "he told me that I am who I am, and there's nothing wrong with that. He said if there are no roles for me out there now, then I just have to create them myself."

"And do you think that's a challenge you're willing to take on?"

He paused then, contemplative, his gaze turning toward Blaine. "Not alone," he admitted. "Probably not. Don't get me wrong, when it comes to quippy, tight dialogue, I'm your guy, but Blaine?" He deferred to Blaine, "He literally has a song lyric for every emotion and situation. I can tell a story, but his music sells it." Kurt shrugged. "Blaine probably knows me as well as anyone. He knows I could never be Satine or Christian, but hey, if Christian was gay, or in this case, _Blaine_ ," a small self-deprecating laugh at his own lame attempt at humor, "then I'd be perfect to play his leading man. As soon as I saw what he arranged for me to sing, I knew it was right. I've never felt in my whole life that I was singing a song that was more made for me than this one. And regardless of whether that means I have a future in the business, I'm really, really happy with how it turned out."

Carmen nodded, a small, if tight, smile on her lips. "You should be. Thank you."

Kurt nodded with an audible sigh of relief and turned to leave the stage.

"Not so fast," Carmen said.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Did you say that this young man did the arrangement?" she asked, pencil tilted toward Blaine.

"Yes. Yes," Kurt beamed. "He's amazing."

"Blaine, is it?" she asked, addressing Blaine directly.

Blaine stood, moved to shoulder up beside Kurt in an effort to share the heat of her gaze like a race car looking to split the wind resistance

"Anderson, yes ma'am," he nodded.

"Well, Blaine Anderson, I don't often get to say this, but that was something I haven't seen before. I enjoyed your vision very much. Why are you not on my audition list?"

"Um, I'm only a junior, ma'am. I haven't actually applied anywhere, yet." He couldn't help leaning forward as if speaking into a microphone that wasn't there, hands clasped behind his back.

"Well, I hope you consider NYADA when you do. If you're interested in more collaborations of this sort, we do have a summer collaborative writing block that we offer as part of our extension program. You and Mr. Hummel make quite a team."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Thank you."

They barely made it off the stage and into the wings before Kurt swept him up in a hug joined by the rest of their friends.

Somehow Blaine thought he knew the way a father must feel giving away his only daughter. Kurt got in. There was no way he didn't get in after that. Kurt was going to New York, and no matter how much Blaine wanted that for him, he was glad there were so many hands holding him up right then.

-#-

He'd meant every word. When he told Carmen Tibideaux that no other song had ever felt more perfect, he'd still been amped from the performance, thrumming with adrenaline and endorphins, but he'd meant it. And he'd never have thought to pick any one of those songs, let alone all of them, wouldn't have known where to begin if it hadn't been for Blaine.

So, Blaine could try to dismiss what he'd done by saying it was nothing special and practically every online fandom had a slash version of Moulin Rouge, but that was about as accurate as the time Mr. Schue had allegedly dismissed the Warblers as a classic stool choir (a little bit of intel Rachel had shared while venting about not getting a solo that competition). The Warblers had Blaine, then, Blaine who was a better dancer than Jesse St. James, a better singer than Finn Hudson, and had ten times the charisma of the two combined, but then, that had been Kurt's secret. No one would have taken him seriously if he'd come out and said that at the time, but now they all knew, even Carmen Tibideaux. And this wasn't slash. It was canon.

The reason the Warblers tied New Directions at Sectionals that year and gave Mr. Schue a case of the full body pucker with the poppy "Soul Sister," was Blaine, and the reason Kurt performed for Madam Tibideaux and actually felt proud of himself at the end of it, rather than judged and demoralized, was Blaine. Blaine, who hadn't even found it a problem that Kurt kept picking up the left hand when the two of them came together in dance frame during rehearsals, even though he was singing the Satine part, pointing out that they should fit together how they fit together, one puzzle piece to another, without concern for the traditional roles where the gentleman led with the left. Blaine who had just added that to his vision instead of forcing Kurt to fit. No way Kurt was going to let him minimize that. He hadn't been more proud to be with Blaine since West Side Story, and he wanted everyone to know it.

There was going to be lots and lots of physical gratitude coming Blaine's way. Until then, Kurt couldn't resist one kiss. They were usually so careful about the public displays of affection, but wrapped in the middle of a group hug wasn't exactly in plain sight, and everyone there already knew they were a couple, anyway. At least he had the good sense to refrain from doing it on stage.

Caught in the press of bodies, it didn't take much finagling for Kurt to cup Blaine's face, more stubble than he was used to scraping beneath his thumbs. Blaine pulled back for a second, surprised, but then sank in, pulling in a deep breath like he hadn't been able to breathe for days, and Kurt was oxygen. Kurt took control, tipping Blaine's head back, his heart thumping into his throat when Blaine's cold hands slid up his chest, one circling behind his neck while the other slid under his coat and around his waist.

Kurt had never gotten used to the way Blaine's hands stayed like ice and gasped when fingertips ghosted into the hair at the base of his neck. When he did, Blaine's mouth opened against his, just a second, just enough, and Kurt tasted him, cherry lip balm, peppermint breath spray, and coffee.

Coffee?

Kurt pulled back so fast their lips stayed parted for half a beat before Blaine's eyes opened, widened when he met Kurt's, red-rimmed and bloodshot with dark stains spreading underneath.

"You haven't slept at all, have you?"

Even though he was torn between seething and petrified, both emotions which warranted shouting, Kurt reined himself in and leaned close to Blaine's ear, one hand on his bicep, "And you're drinking coffee?"

Blaine's eyes darted nervously around at the rest of the group, arms crossed as he clammed up. Sensing that the moment had passed, the rest of the group started to dissipate, the chorus members to remove makeup and the rest to watch Rachel's audition. Once it was just he and Kurt, the barrier came back down; Blaine rubbed the back of his neck, mouth opening and closing as if the perfect explanation would fall out on its own.

"Have you at least been taking your medication, or were you just going to perform your own clinical trial on the side effects of missing doses? Because I've read those trials, Blaine, and it's not a good idea." He could feel his chin starting to quiver, a sea urchin trying to climb up his throat, one spine at a time.

Blaine took Kurt by the shoulders and squared him up so they were eye to eye when he said, "Yes, okay. Yes to all of it. I haven't slept more than a couple of hours in the last three days, and I have been drinking coffee, but I'm still taking my medication, okay?"

Kurt attempted to drop his gaze, which Blaine countered by stooping. "Hey. Look at me. I'm fine, okay?"

"You obviously haven't looked in a mirror. If you had, you wouldn't try to pass yourself off as fine. You look worse than you did after Rachel Berry's party."

"And I lived through that just fine, undiagnosed heart condition and all." Blaine pointed out. "Relax. It was just for the audition. I wanted it to be perfect for you, and there just weren't enough hours in the day. I know how much this meant to you."

"Blaine, nothing means as much to me as you do."

"Which is why I'm going straight home to sleep for, like, the next ten hours, at least."

Kurt swayed back and forth, still torn between riding the wave of relief and euphoria of crushing his audition, which he couldn't have done without all the work Blaine put in, or admonishing Blaine for scaring the hell out of him. Before either could happen, Rachel stormed off the stage in tears.

Kurt supposed there was no point throwing gasoline on one fire when there was already another to put out. He'd take his wins where he could get them.

Closing his eyes, he pulled Blaine closer, pressing their foreheads together, and sighed. "I'm going to go talk to Rachel, and then I'm taking you home and putting you to bed." A quick kiss to Blaine's temple, "To sleep. And we're going to talk about this tomorrow. But thank you, thank you, thank you so much for today. I would never have made it through this audition without you."

"You were amazing," Blaine breathed, a note of reverence in his voice.

Kurt pulled away, pressed his car keys into the palm of Blaine's hand. "Go get some rest. I'll meet you at the car after I check on Rachel."

"I love you."

Kurt hated that it sounded like an apology.

-TBC

AN: Thanks for reading. You matter.


	4. Nationals

Chapter Four

By the time Rachel's tears were dry and Madame Tibideaux had left the building, Blaine was passed out in the front seat of Kurt's Navigator, face smashed against the window with a little streamer of drool clinging to the corner of his mouth. It should have been adorable. It wasn't.

Okay, it was. A little. But Kurt was still not happy with him.

And the wrestling match involved in peeling him out of his clothes and tucking him into bed wasn't quite the physical gratitude Kurt had planned for the evening. Blaine was a wreck, all dark eyes and stubble, already snoring before Kurt rolled him onto his pillow. He had no doubt Blaine really would sleep for at least ten hours, and he deserved every minute.

He whispered into the hair that curled around the shell of Blaine's ear, "Thank you, love." Then, with a kiss to the same spot. "But don't ever do that again."

-#-

"Has anyone seen Blaine, today?" Mr. Schuester asked, and by anyone, he obviously meant Kurt.

"His mother called me this morning to let me know that he needed a day to catch up on his sleep," Kurt answered. "He hasn't really had any for a few days, because he was working on my audition piece."

Schuester seemed flustered. "I'm sorry, but that's unacceptable. We're less than two weeks from Nationals, people. It's all hands on deck from now until then. I don't mean to sound harsh, but we can all sleep when we're dead. Until then, we have to be here putting in the time."

"That's not really fair, is it, Mr. Schue?" Kurt rebuked. "I mean, we all know that Blaine puts in more hours on his own time than anyone here. If you give him choreography to work on today, he'll take it and run it a hundred times before he comes back tomorrow. Two days from now, you'll never know he missed a day, and this choreography isn't even finished yet."

"Which is why everyone needs to be here to help hash it out," Schue said. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I'm glad your audition went well, but we can't let the future distract us from the present. Right now is about this whole team. We can't just take days off and leave twelve other people in the lurch."

"Well, then," a familiar voice from the wings, "as long as no one mentions that we're not supposed to participate in extracurricular activities if we've missed classes for the day, then I won't mention that Rachel isn't here, either." Everyone turned as Blaine joined them in the auditorium, dressed in loose fitting dance clothes that looked suspiciously like the sweats Kurt had put him to bed in, what was probably day old gel in his hair with water combed in, and still looking entirely too exhausted for Kurt's liking.

"Blaine Warbler, we missed you!" Brittany squealed, lurching to give him a hug, then pulling back with a grimace, "but you kinda look like one of Lord Tubbington's hairballs."

Mr. Schue held up his hand to high five Blaine on his way past, "Well, we'll take him any way we can get him."

"I'd prefer him sane and healthy, myself," Kurt mumbled, arms crossed and face in a scowl. He was pretty sure only Mike and Tina actually heard him, but Blaine took one look at his expression and steered clear.

"We can sleep when we're dead, right Mr. Schue?" Blaine smirked.

"That's what I'm talking about!"

Kurt would never know how Blaine could look so run down and so proud at the same time. Everything was always all or nothing with him, and giving his all left nothing for himself.

-#-

"Blaine, you have to talk to Mr. Schue. This choreography is insane."

With nothing but Prom and Nationals left to distract from waiting to hear back from NYADA, and his newfound promophobia to distract from that distraction, Kurt had been fixating on Nationals preparation. Or more specifically, he'd been fixating on Blaine prepping for Nationals, and if Blaine was completely honest, Kurt was starting to suck the fun out of it. He never actually said he was worried about Blaine doing the dance number, but he took every opportunity to throw out adjectives like 'spastic,' 'chaotic,' and 'confusing' during practice in an effort to get Mr. Schue to tone things down. It wasn't earning him any points with Schue or anyone else in the club, and only Blaine knew what he was really up to. Of course, every time Kurt deemed something too strenuous, Blaine worked that much harder to prove he could pull it off.

"What?" Blaine scoffed, working the eraser of his pencil between his incisors while the rest of the pencil wagged up and down out the side of his mouth. "No way. The choreography is amazing. With Rachel and the Trouble Tones taking up two slots, we've only got the one really big dance number. We need it to be huge if we have any chance of beating Vocal Adrenaline."

Kurt swiveled around in his desk chair to where Blaine was sprawled on his stomach across his bed working on his Calculus homework.

"I'm looking at the website for the venue in Chicago, and the stage we're performing on there is almost twice the size of our auditorium. The risers are both higher and wider, and "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights," is almost four minutes of crisscrossing the whole thing. Even Meatloaf himself can barely get through that song."

"He's more than twice our age and overweight." Blaine pretended to work through an equation, then attempted to erase it with the now-soggy eraser, only to create a smear across his notebook page. He reached for his bag in order to retrieve a fresh pencil, because he was not going to have this conversation with Kurt again. Half the choreography in question had been Blaine's idea in the first place, and he was really excited about this number. They were going to kill it at Nationals, and Blaine was not going to be sidelined for any of it.

"Blaine, I'm serious. You cannot just keep pushing yourself like this."

"I'm not doing any more than I've always done." Now he'd gone and erased a hole through the paper, needed to start over again from scratch on another page entirely. He turned to a fresh sheet of graph paper. He always did math on graph paper instead of regular notepaper. That way the numbers all stayed appropriately lined up in their own little boxes. Less chance for error. Sure, it was a little conspicuous handing in homework, but Blaine never really had a problem standing out.

"Even if that were true, which we both know it isn't, you're supposed to be on restriction."

"And I'm restricting boxing. The doctors didn't say anything about show choir." He kept his eyes down, let Kurt talk to the top of his head, because he knew if he looked Kurt in the eye, he'd have no choice but to give in, and Blaine needed to keep this for himself-needed it in a way Kurt just didn't get, because Kurt wasn't like him. Kurt didn't need that thrum and that reverb, didn't need bigger, harder, louder, didn't feel everything threatening to fizzle out and die if he stopped fanning the coals for even a second like his world was built from waterlogged branches.

Kurt could do still. Kurt could do peaceful. Kurt was good at quiet.

Blaine needed the noise.

"Because you didn't tell them that you treat show choir like a Ninja Warrior obstacle course, Blaine."

"You don't know what I told them."

"I know what you told my dad."

Of course Burt had shared this information with Kurt. In a way, Blaine was glad the two of them could talk about this. They could talk amongst themselves and leave Blaine out of it. Blaine was done talking about it.

"You're not going to win this one, Kurt," Blaine sighed, already halfway through the next differential equation. "I think we actually have a shot at winning Nationals this year, and after that, most of the club is graduating. There's no telling what kind of team we're going to have next year. So, if this is my last legitimate chance at winning, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure we do."

Talking head Kurt wasn't ready to give up.

"Even if you make yourself sick in the process."

It was a statement, not a question. Even without looking up, Blaine could hear the resignation that must be written all over Kurt's face. As much as he wanted this conversation over, Blaine was never one to condone Kurt giving up. With a huff, he dropped his pencil into his notebook and folded it all up inside his textbook, rolled onto his back, so he could see Kurt, albeit upside down.

"I won't make myself sick, okay? I'm fine in practice when we only do a section at a time, and like you said, we crisscross the stage for that entire number. If I feel like it's too much, I am never more than a few steps away from the curtain. I can step out and come back in if I need to." He reached over his head for Kurt's hands, pulling him up out of the chair and leading him down beside him on the bed. "And I promise I will."

Kurt rolled into Blaine, his head on Blaine's shoulder. "You promise. For real?"

"Of course. Just... don't tell Mr. Schue, okay? I need him to know I'm here for the team 100%. I still feel like they all think I'm heading straight back to Dalton as soon as you're gone. They never seem to take me seriously unless I'm coming up with choreography or adding a harmony they hadn't thought of. The rest of the time, I'm Blaine Warbler or half of the Wonder Twins. They let me talk, but they really only listen to you."

He was surprised all that came out. He hadn't even taken the time to admit he felt that way until now, too many other conflicting things going on in his head.

Kurt braced himself on an elbow, his other hand draped across Blaine's chest as he looked down, his face so impossibly close Blaine felt his eyes cross slightly in order to maintain focus.

"I didn't know you felt that way," he frowned.

Blaine shrugged, fisted one hand in the waist of Kurt's sweater vest as he rolled slightly, sliding his knee closer to Kurt's. "I just need them to take me seriously. After we win, I can totally slack off for the whole summer if you want me to."

"Oh no," Kurt smirked, tangling their legs together. "I have a whole other kind of physical activity planned for the summer."

"I think I know what that is," Blaine tipped his chin up, his lips brushing Kurt's.

Kurt let his weight settle over Blaine, their noses brushing. "Mmm, hmm, he hummed. My research says sex is one hundred percent doctor approved, so I was thinking we'd do as much of that as possible."

"That's a plan I can totally get on board with," then he tightened his grip at Kurt's waist and flipped them around, Kurt landing underneath him with a huff. "All aboard."

-#-

The night before they were to leave for Nationals in Chicago, and Emma was still packing, even though she'd started a week ahead of time. Will had his own bags together, no doubt thrown together in the half hour or so after he got home from the final group practice. Emma hadn't watched, having stayed later at school that night and gotten home to find dinner made and bags packed. She was glad she hadn't witnessed that, already fighting the urge to dump out and fix his oddly bulging suitcase, certain everything inside was wrinkled beyond repair, shirt sleeves probably touching the soles of shoes, underwear tangled up in neckties. She'd learned long ago that the secret to successful cohabitation was to let Will's mess be Will's mess, as long as it didn't spill over into Emma's.

It was probably good that she'd learned to let that go, because more often than not, if she let Will do things his way, no matter how haphazard and shoddy she considered his way to be, he was more than willing to help her finish up doing things her way. The opportunity for conversation in those moments usually opened topics they rarely ever broached otherwise, either because they were avoiding talking about how he must think she was crazy, or because knowing things were getting done right helped her relax enough to dwell on other things that might have been pushed aside.

She was rolling her fourth pair of pajamas(even though they were only staying in the hotel for two nights) into a vacuum bag with its own anti-static dryer sheet when she asked, "What time did practice end tonight?"

Will was rubbing beeswax across the zipper of Emma's suitcase and then brushing it in with a toothbrush, seated on the end of the bed. "We got done early so everyone could get home and finish packing. I didn't see any point drilling them. If they don't have it by now, then I haven't done my job."

"Huh." She flipped the switch on her handheld vacuum sealer, finished with the pajamas, and switched it off again.

"Huh?"

"Well, I was the last staff to leave this evening, so I did one last walk around to make sure there were no students left in the building. And you'll never guess who was still in the auditorium rehearsing on his own."

"Blaine Anderson?"

"Blaine Anderson," she nodded.

Will raised his eyebrows, beamed a smile, as he brushed over the zipper teeth. "That boy is something, isn't he? I'm so glad we'll have him to build our program on next year after we lose so many of our seniors. It's not often we get a student with so much drive."

"But driven by what, exactly?" And there it was, the thing that had been niggling away in the back of her mind ever since her little relationship counseling session with Kurt and Blaine. "Is he having problems with the choreography?"

"No, no. In fact, he usually just takes one day to get it down. We hash it out in practice one day, and he comes back the next with it nailed down and half a dozen suggestions on how to make it better. He has great instincts."

"Too good to be true."

"What?"

"That's what I thought when he auditioned for West Side Story. Too good to be true. Nobody's just that good. That's a full time job. It takes some serious drive and commitment. He's seventeen, Will. So, what do you think drives a kid that young to practice for hours on end?"

A shrug. "He probably wants to give the audience what they came to see. He's a crowd pleaser."

"So is it the crowd he's trying to please or himself? Does he need the crowd to gauge how he feels about himself?"

"I don't know what you're getting at."

"I don't remember where it was, a book I read once, I think, where they made a distinction between someone who is motivated and someone who is driven. Someone who is motivated is trying to do something positive and is chasing a positive outcome. Someone who is driven, is trying to avoid a negative outcome. I don't know if that distinction has ever been made anywhere else or whether it's generally accepted, but it struck a chord in me and has always rung true." She moved on from packing clothing to organizing toiletries, wiping each item down before placing it a Ziploc bag and lining them up in the opposite reverse chronological order so that she could remove the item she'd need first without digging through the rest. "I was in denial for years about my OCD, Will. You know that. Even after it was pointed out to me time and again. It wasn't until I asked myself whether I... do the things I do... to make myself happy or just to keep from feeling helpless and exposed that I started to accept that I needed help."

"So, you think Blaine doesn't enjoy putting on a great show; he's just afraid what people will say if he messes up?"

"Or what he will say to himself. And I don't know. I just... have a feeling about him. You know, he and Kurt came to talk to me during Whitney week, and while I'm not at liberty to share what they said, there was just something in his voice and in the way he started off not wanting to talk at all but then couldn't stop. I think there's a lot going on under the surface with him."

"I think you mean well, Emma, but don't you think it's possible that you're projecting a little?" He tested the zipper by sliding it open and closed several times, then nodded, extended the handle on the suitcase and rolled it alongside his own.

"I suppose I could be, but what if I'm not? I mean, you said yourself, everyone knew I wasn't well, but they let it slide because I was cute about it and didn't seem to be hurting anyone. Don't you think maybe you're willing to ignore Blaine's unhealthy drive for perfection because it wins show choir competitions? Or maybe he's trying extra hard to impress you because he doesn't feel like he's one of 'your' kids like Kurt or Rachel or Finn."

"Come on, that's not true." He sat on the edge of the bed and took the hand she was using to wipe down her perfume bottle, ignoring the soggy baby wipe already in it. "They're all my kids. They know that. He knows I care about more than just winning competitions."

"Does he? Will, you came home after Kurt's NYADA audition gushing about the arrangement that Blaine did. You literally did not stop going on about it all night. Did you tell him that?"

"As a matter of fact, I did."

"And how did he take that?"

Frowning slightly, he shrugged. "He deflected it, I guess. He said we do mash-ups in Glee all the time, and Kurt was the one who made it work."

"Was that the truth? Was it just another mash-up?"

"No, no... I mean, for a mashup you just need one common thread to make the pieces come together. What Blaine did... layers upon layers... it was amazing. I was so proud of both of them."

"But he didn't believe you, and you let him minimize it."

"I guess, after dealing with Rachel for two years, someone who just has that overpowering confidence in her own ability, and with everyone else constantly trying to win solos away from her, a little humility was kind of refreshing."

"Charming, even? Wouldn't you agree?"

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, unless you're so busy being charmed that you don't notice what's really going on." A beat. "What do you really know about Blaine? Have you made an effort to get to know him at all outside of Kurt? Did you visit him when he was out all those weeks? He's literally just one exit down the highway from here."

"In fact, I did have a talk with him the day he transferred in."

"About what, exactly?"

"Well, he came to me about joining the New Directions. Normally, everyone has to audition, but since I'd already seen him with the Warblers, I... crap." He dropped her hand and scrubbed at the back of his neck.

"What?"

Will scrambled, "You have to realize, Jesse St. James tried to sabotage us by getting to Rachel, and with everything Kurt had been through last year, I was maybe feeling a little overprotective. So, I asked him straight out why he transferred to McKinley. Show choir aside, Dalton's curriculum is superior to anything we can offer here, and he was a rock star there. Here, he'd have to share the spotlight. I..."

"You implied he had ulterior motives."

"A piano had just been lit on fire in our courtyard. I had a right to be suspicious."

"Santana did that."

"I know. And when Blaine said he had nothing to do with it, I believed him. Well, I believed him after he told me why he transferred."

"For Kurt?"

"Yeah, for Kurt, but I let him know I thought that was a terrible idea, and he agreed, which was why he said Kurt was just one reason. He also had some demons to slay that he couldn't face by staying at Dalton."

"You're referring to the bashing incident at his old public school." She put down her packing and sat beside him on the bed.

"You know about that?"

"I admit, I may have done a little digging. I noticed he repeated his Freshman year after an extended absence between leaving his old public school and transferring to Dalton. It didn't take much Googling to find out there was a gay bashing incident at his old school right before he left."

"He didn't give me all the details, but he did say he felt like he needed to prove to himself that he could be okay outside the umbrella of Dalton's zero tolerance bullying policy, and he felt like he could do that here because of Kurt."

"Which is great, and fine, and good, but now he's a year behind Kurt, and Kurt is leaving. Have you seen him forming any kind of connections to McKinley that _don't_ revolve around Kurt?"

His shoulders slumped slightly as he placed a hand on her thigh. "I think you might be onto something after all, but I'm not sure what we're supposed to do. Do you really think he's in trouble?"

"I don't know. I just remember Sue after the Karofsky incident saying how she knew something was up with that kid, and everyone was so quick to say it wasn't our job to know he was capable of that. I know something is up with _this_ kid, and I don't know what that means, but I do know that sometimes the ones that are really good at treading water and not making waves are the ones that slip under before anyone notices. I think, for now, we just need to notice."

"Point taken."

-#-

After the late night they'd all had, rehearsing and then reminiscing about how far they'd come in the short time since the New Directions' inception, everyone was still sound asleep when Blaine rolled out of his sleeping bag on the floor of the hotel room. If he hadn't been tiptoeing to avoid waking the rest of the guys, he'd have had to anyway to avoid stepping on Puck who refused to share a bed with either Artie or Mike under the pretense of, 'guys just don't do that.' Blaine wasn't offended. It had been pretty much the same every time the Warblers had stayed overnight in hotels, too, and he knew that, in the next room over, Kurt and Finn were sprawled out on double beds while Rory and Joe were stuck on the floor.

Sleeping on the floor was one of the reasons Blaine had volunteered to wake up earliest for first shower, since he hadn't planned to be sleeping well in the first place. It also gave him a chance to get in and out of the room relatively unnoticed when he went to meet Ms. Pillsbury to get his medication. School policy forbade him from carrying his prescription with him. It had to be turned over to the medical designee for distribution.

No one needed to know that he almost missed going with them to Nationals because his mom had been required to fill out the medication forms and deliver his pills, in their original container, to Ms. Pillsbury in person. He loved his mom, but she was so busy, Blaine usually just got her permission over the phone to forge her signature on most school related documents. He was eternally grateful to Ms. Pillsbury for showing up at his house the morning before they left for Nationals rather than trusting his mother to find the time to make the trip to McKinley.

His hair was still wet and not yet gelled when he slipped out of the room and made his way down the hall. Ms. Pillsbury was expecting him, so rather than knocking, he sent her a text and waited outside her room. The hotel was packed with show choirs and chaperones, and it was obvious high school shenanigans had ensued the night before as he weaved past more than one snoring sleeping bag. Fellow wet-headed zombie like early risers made their way down to the continental breakfast while roommates started to stir and shower in shifts.

Emma was already dressed but only partially made up when she opened the door. "Good morning, Blaine. You can come on in. Will's in the shower," she invited, putting in a sparkly bow earring, her diamond engagement ring bulging from underneath the thin gloves on her hands. He made a conscious effort not to fidget as he crossed the threshold, feeling suddenly self-conscious and a little bouncy. "I almost didn't recognize you," she said. She studied him in his mirrored reflection over her shoulder while she straightened her earring at the vanity, her makeup and toiletries lined up by size and purpose beneath the mirror. He didn't miss the prescription bottle at the very end of the counter, obviously the very last item on a long, particular list of things to do.

"Oh, yeah," Blaine smirked, hands gesturing toward his head. "Curly."

"I had no idea," Emma grinned. "It's very... carefree."

"It's wild," Blaine offered. "You can say it's wild. I should know. I'm the one that has to tame it."

"Well, it's very handsome, with or without the gel."

She finished with her earrings and opened one of the bureau drawers, taking out a zippered bag that she opened to retrieve Blaine's pill bottle. He could tell from the way she turned it around in her hand and handed it over without meeting his gaze that she knew she was supposed to open the bottle and hand him the correct dosage but found the whole thing as ridiculous as he did. He was grateful as he took out his pill and handed the bottle back, that she didn't ask him to take it while she watched. He took it on his own, and washed it down with the bottled water he'd brought with him while she stowed the container back in her bag.

He wasn't sure if he was just supposed to excuse himself or stay and make small talk, scratched the back of his neck as he swayed somewhere between standing and turning around, bouncing on his toes.

"You know, I get the feeling you haven't told many people about your condition," she ventured, picking up a mascara wand. She leaned into the mirror, eyes wide, to apply it but Blaine noted she kept her gaze on him.

"Um, yeah, well, it's not really that big of a deal. I don't want everyone worrying about it. The medication is supposed to be helping, so..."

"But you're okay to participate today, right?"

He grinned, the expression practiced enough to be equal parts reassurance and distraction. "It's show choir. I'm not running a marathon or anything."

"Well, as long as you know your limitations." She broke her gaze to finish applying the mascara. "Because we all just want to keep you safe, and I know Will would be devastated if anything happened to you because he pushed you too hard without knowing."

"No one's pushing me to do anything," Blaine rebutted.

"That doesn't mean we wouldn't feel responsible if you pushed yourself too hard while we're supposed to be taking care of you." She applied her lipstick and blotted on a tissue that she folded into a small square, counting the creases as she did so.

The bathroom door opened, the roar of the vent fan suddenly five times louder, and Mr. Schuester came out, luckily wearing a t-shirt and slacks, his button down shirt in one hand, neck tie in the other. Surprised, his eyes widened to find someone other than Emma in the room.

"Oh, hi, uh... Blaine?" Schue looked relieved to have been able to put a name to the strangely curly-haired face.

"Good morning, Mr. Schue."

"Good morning. Did you need something?"

"Nope. Already got it," Blaine deflected, heading for the door.

"Wait!"

Blaine turned back, not sure whether to be intrigued or worried, just managed to catch the end of a silent eye conversation between Ms. Pillsbury and Mr. Schue.

"I'm glad you're here, actually." Sliding on his shirt, Schuester busied himself with doing up the buttons, "I've been wanting to talk with you, and it's so rare I catch you alone."

Suddenly feeling a little like a trapped animal, Blaine fought back the urge to chew off his own paw. "Um, can it wait? I have to get the gel in my hair before I miss the window of opportunity between too wet and too dry. I'm sure you know my struggle, Mr. Schue," he evaded, gesturing toward Mr. Schuester's own post shower curls.

Will quirked the corner of his mouth with a huff. "Well, just spray some more water in if you have to, this will only take a minute." He fumbled with the top button, stretching his chin up in order to get a better hold of it, gritted out something about sitting down. Blaine declined by way of leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Will ended up sitting on the end of the bed himself and met Blaine's gaze full-on for the first time.

Blaine fought to not look away, always taught the value and importance of eye contact, but his insides squirmed away on their own, making him feel disjointed and slightly off balance, certain he was about to be admonished for something. He knew he'd mostly been marking time at their last rehearsal, but that's because it was impossible to actually dance with all of the New Directions crammed into one tiny hotel room. He'd run through the number three times on his own in the hallway afterward.

"I wanted to apologize," Schue said.

Startled. "For what?"

"For getting off on the wrong foot with you. I was suspicious and feeling overprotective of Kurt, and I accused you of not being on board for the right reasons. I'm sorry."

"Um, okay?" To be honest, his first conversation with Mr. Schuester on the day he'd transferred to McKinley had gone pretty much the way he'd expected it to, given everything Kurt had told him. Really, only Finn's reaction had come as a surprise. Blaine had been at the Hummel-Hudson house probably every other day over the summer and had started to think of Finn less as his boyfriend's stepbrother and more like a friend. He hadn't expected the territorial chest puffing leading up to Sectionals.

"No, I mean it, Blaine. I should never have made you feel like you had anything to prove to me. Even after that less than stellar introduction, you have gone above and beyond for this club, even when it was coming apart at the seams, and I want to make sure you know that, however late you came into the fold, you're one of my kids, now. I appreciate all the work you do, in and outside of rehearsal time. I appreciate that you bring new ideas to the table without being disrespectful of anyone else's ideas or the ways we normally do things. And I don't tell you enough how much I appreciate your talent. No matter what I ask of you, whether it's to backup someone else or take the lead, you always make me proud."

Suddenly, the insides that had been squirming around and trying to leave the room without his outsides managed to work their way up into Blaine's throat. He tried to swallow them down but still sounded choked. "I do?"

"Of course you do, Blaine. Why would you doubt that?" It was Emma, now, who'd never really been out of earshot, though Blaine had assumed she wasn't listening. He felt his cheeks getting hot. "Will was absolutely gushing about the piece you did for Kurt's NYADA audition. You'd have thought he arranged it himself he was so proud."

"That was noth..."

"No, don't you minimize it, Blaine," Schue scolded. "Emma's right. I was blown away by what you did. In fact, if they hadn't changed the Nationals format to do away with the showcase performance, I think that might have been the perfect number for our final set."

"Really?" Embarrassed, elated, mortified, and humble all warred in his chest, flip-flopping positions in a nauseating tumble that made it hard to catch his breath. "For Nationals?"

"You bet. It's beyond good enough."

While Blaine was ninety-nine percent certain he wouldn't want to share that piece with all of a Nationals audience, it meant something to know it was good enough, that he had done something good enough. "Thanks."

He fought back the urge to run out of the room, silently hoping Schue wasn't going to try to hug him. Blaine was not averse to hugs, just not when his whole body felt like the skin on a soft-boiled egg.

"I mean it. You should be proud of yourself, son. I couldn't be happier to have you on my team. Even better that I get to keep you for another year. Your musical arrangements could put us over the top."

Except Blaine wasn't even sure they were going to let him do show choir next year. He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Um, okay. Thanks. C-can I go, though. I want to grab some breakfast and..."

Schue shook his head and waved a dismissal. "Go on. Get outta here. And don't sweat it, okay? You're going to be awesome."

Blaine barely managed a wave and a nod before he was out the door, leaning against the frame for a second to compose himself before heading down the hall. Next time, maybe he'd bring Kurt along. He didn't know if he could handle another heart to heart with Will Schuester any time soon.

It was a little too much like picking at scabs.

-#-

He had bacon grease on his phone and a stupid grin on his face when he got back to the room, Cooper still on the line, more than content to keep talking even through Blaine's hurried mouthfuls of breakfast. He'd never understood how his brother could maintain his same over the top energy even at what was probably 5 a.m. California time.

Pushing into the room, phone still to his ear, Blaine shouted, "Everybody, Cooper says 'break a leg!'"

Everyone now in various stages of dressed and put together, the door between their adjoining rooms open to the steady back and forth traffic, the rest of the club smiled, raising hands as if to wave through the phone all the way to L.A.

"Hey, Cooper!"

"Oh, wait," Blaine corrected, lowering the phone as he pointed his index fingers and repeated in a much louder tone, "He says, BREAK. A. LEG. And there might have been an accent of some sort, but I'm not going to attempt that. I'm pretty sure it's offensive."

A collective laugh rumbled through the room, Cooper's antics a welcome distraction from the building tension. Blaine almost dropped the phone and the bagel with cream cheese and orange juice he'd brought back when Kurt spun him around from behind, murmuring something about Blaine's hair before wrapping his fingers in said hair and pulling him in for a good morning kiss, toothpaste fresh, steamy just-showered soap scent still thick on his skin.

"My kryptonite," Kurt breathed, pulling back. Then, "This is Cooper?" pointing to the phone. Still stunned by the ambush, Blaine just nodded mutely, and Kurt snatched the phone. "Cooper? Hey, this is Kurt. Good morning. Yeah. Blaine's momentarily incapacitated, but listen, I wanted to talk to you, anyway." He mouthed a thanks, taking the bag and orange juice cup out of Blaine's other hand, then shut himself in the bathroom.

"Uh, good morning," Blaine mumbled.

"Anderson, rehearsal in half an hour. Leave Hummel to his phone sex with your smoking hot brother in the hotel bathroom. You just get that stupid grin off your face and some shellac into that bird's nest on your head." Since when was Santana appointed team coxswain? She had a point, though.

Hair. Now.

The morning gelling routine distracted him from wondering what Kurt was talking about with Cooper. He doubted they were planning a surprise birthday party, since his birthday wasn't for months, or anti-graduation party to celebrate Blaine having to repeat his freshman year and miss out graduating with Kurt (it didn't seem fair that the guys who attacked him all those years ago were still messing with his life, and he'd vented to both Kurt and Cooper about that on more than a few occasions). More than likely they were comparing notes on 'how Blaine was doing with everything.' He'd known for a while that Kurt was Cooper's narc. He was actually okay with that, since it meant he could let them obsess about the things Blaine preferred to ignore without having to actively deflect the conversation.

When Kurt came out and dropped the phone on the dresser next to Blaine's tub of hair gel, the call was ended, probably for the best considering the amount of goop Blaine had on his hands at the moment.

"Nice chat?" Blaine queried, noting the way Kurt stuffed a bite of bagel into his mouth to avoid having to do more than nod in response. "Well, good. Did he tell you he invited me to come visit him this summer?"

Kurt swallowed the last bite and wiped his hands on a waylaid hand towel he found tossed on the bureau before reaching up and smoothing his fingers over the small wave in the front of Blaine's hair from behind, shaping it a little tighter with the aid of the mirror, before dropping his arm around Blaine's neck, pulling Blaine back against his chest.

"Mm-hmm," he hummed into Blaine's ear. "And I told him he'd have to fight me for you."

"Don't I get a say?" Blaine batted his eyes up at the reflection of Kurt, standing behind him.

"Oh, honey, of course you do." Kurt wrapped Blaine tighter for a second before stepping back and striking a pose in the mirror, eyes to the heavens, hip cocked with fingers splayed over the jutting bone, "Just remember what you'd be giving up."

"Well, when you put it that way, maybe I can convince Coop to come visit me at home instead." He spun in his chair and grasped Kurt at the waist, craning his neck up for a kiss, which Kurt granted.

"Hey! No wrinkling each other! It's almost show time!" Rachel admonished. She promptly ignored her own advice in favor of a good morning kiss from Finn.

"All right, everybody," Mr. Schuester called, having entered from one of the adjoining rooms. "We've got the rehearsal room for half an hour! Let's move out!"

-#-

Blaine hadn't been this nervous since Kurt's Junior Prom. This was a whole different kind of nerves, though. The thrum was the same, his whole body a pounding pulse, breath hot and hands ice cold. It was sometimes funny, sometimes downright scary how his body's reaction to anticipation felt the same whether it was, 'just can't wait to kill this thing,' anticipation, or 'who wants to kill _me_ ' anticipation. Either way, he was electric, a familiar static around him that drew in the feedback from all of his senses, crackling and sticky over his skin, one hard rub away from exploding. And there was Kurt beside him like stainless steel in the dry winter air. Bouncing on his toes did nothing to dispel the charge.

He huffed in and out, watched Kurt measuring the stage with his eyes, the same wide-eyed trepidation as he'd had before their "Candles" duet. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd warned about the size of this stage in comparison to their own auditorium. Just the riser section alone would have taken up their whole performance area at home, and they'd definitely need to jump bigger to make it to the top. None of which was going to be a problem, not today. Today the reverb was synergy, and the thrum was a drum line marching up and down his spine.

The Trouble Tones were just finishing up their "Edge of Glory" number. Blaine reached up to give Kurt a reassuring shake, one hand on the back of his neck, one on his bicep, before darting out to take his place in the shadows to back up Rachel's solo.

"Showtime." And not a minute too soon.

-#-

By the time "It's All Coming Back to Me Now," finished and the applause died down, Blaine's hands were shaking with anticipation. So, maybe he attacked the opening of "Dashboard" a little harder than necessary, but he had to match Mike Chang and do it while avoiding Finn's mammoth swinging paws. He thought he held his own and most definitely did not deserve the tight head shake Kurt gave him when he dashed around the pedestal and leapt up to the top of the risers.

And maybe he flew a little too far when he took that flying leap off the top stair into the wings but flying was the only way to stay on the crest of the wave. No undertow could drag him under, not even the pull of Kurt's admonishing glare which he met with his best flirtatious eyebrow quirk and smirk before dashing back out, skip-running across the top riser for his 'glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife' duet/solo with Kurt. A sprint to the front of the stage, followed by a perfectly executed heel spin back to center, and he was no longer riding the wave, he _was_ the wave.

It wasn't until he stepped up beside Santana and took a deep breath to belt out the next line that he started to slip under. A sharp stab burst the balloon of breath before it was half full, and the partial breath he held onto was forced out in a gasp that he heaved through in order to stay with the music, stars bursting at the edges of his vision as he sang through the oohs instead of letting the air get to his brain. He managed to force a grin through a brief span of vertigo, huffed the world back into focus, one more line, and thankfully, turned away from the audience to set up the next block of choreography.

The spell passed, leaving a high pitched ring in his ears, like feedback in the reverb speaker, but not before Kurt's hand tightened on Blaine's forearm as they neared the edge of the stage on their second run across. Blaine managed to shake it off without missing a beat, dodging Kurt's gaze. Luckily, most of the dancing after that was really just running with some sashaying and skipping thrown in, most of the singing, oohs, and bop-bops, and they usually stopped for a few beats after every pass across the stage to give Rachel and Finn time to weave in their vocals.

Blaine was starting to think he'd imagined the jolt from earlier, or decided it had been, at the most a pulled intercostal muscle, not enough stretching in the warmup. If he was sweating a little more than he was used to, that was to be expected-no boxing, less dancing, he was losing his condition a little-or maybe just the heat of Kurt's glare boring into him from every direction. His breath was maybe a little shorter, too, but nothing he couldn't push through. Nothing he wouldn't push through. He lived for this. Lived for it.

He'd almost caught the wave again, the smile pulling at his lips all real, because he'd never had to work for his show face, just let it out from under the carefully mannered facade. Then, he took that leap up to the highest riser at the far left of the stage where he and Kurt were supposed to dance while the rest of the group paired up on the steps below them. He left the ground with wings on his feet and landed with a knife in his chest, one knee giving out as if made from rubber. Thinking fast, he pulled a move from their Sectionals routine and did a turn around the bent knee, popping up after one rotation as if it were part of the choreography all along.

Of course, Kurt knew that it wasn't, and Blaine cast a warning glare at him, exaggerating his arm movements to discourage any attempt to help him. His singing voice was mostly shot at that point as he fought to catch his breath, but he kept his mouth moving. Show must go on, after all. Like the first time, the pain dissipated quickly, but his breath, already short from running, stayed short and tight, the edges of his vision swimming.

And why did the last block of choreography consist mostly of turns?

Perhaps by force of will alone, he made it to the end of the song upright, and perhaps he stayed that way, bolstered by the thunderous applause and the standing ovation. Most likely it was Kurt's hands at his waist that got him down the risers and into the wings. Blaine was too busy trying to catch his breath and blinking back cold sweat out of his eyes to remember how he crossed that distance.

"Sit, sit, sit," Kurt's voice in his ear, Kurt's hands pressing him back and down. And Blaine wanted to. He wanted to sit, wanted to put his head between his knees and just get off the roller coaster, but more than the quake in his knees and tremor in Kurt's voice, he felt the press of bodies around him, the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes, whispers of concern, someone calling for Mr. Schue.

"No, no. I'm fine. I'm fine," he insisted, swaying left then right as he shook loose of Kurt's grip.

"Blaine, you need to sit," Kurt repeated, his voice stronger and tinged with panic.

"No!" He forced his gaze to steady and looked up at Finn, then Rachel, deliberately not looking at Kurt. "I'm just a little winded."

"Then sit down!"

"Kurt, I'm fine!"

"Blaine! Sit! Your heart!"

And the rug yanked out from under him.

Blaine attributed the burning in the back of his throat to the pointed barbs he swallowed, clenched tight around his held breath. Not until he shifted his eyes, a quick glance around, quickly diverted downward away from worried glances the rest of the team fixed him under, did he feel the traitor tear slide along the curve of his nose and catch in the corner of his lips. The breath he released and the one he drew in behind it trembled enough to make a choked hiccup in his chest.

"Kurt!" he huffed. Betrayal coiled around him, heat boiling up and out. Scalded into silence, he bit his lip. Stuttering breaths forced into his sinuses, acrid as smoke, and he ducked his head, plowed through the crowd and out, head pounding and chest tight.

He didn't stop until he found air, then took more than his share, sliding down the door of the hotel room, because he didn't have the stupid key.

That's where he was when Kurt found him, followed closely by Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury, and he wasn't dead, thank you very much. He was fine. Finefinefinefine.

But Kurt wasn't. Kurt was wrecked, his face translucent except for the opaque reddened rims of his eyes. The glistening tears tracked like melting glacial ice, but they burned when Kurt dropped beside him and buried his face in Blaine's neck.

"Blaine. I'm sorry. I was just so scared..." Kurt's chest hitched, adding syllables within the words.

And Blaine wanted to be angry. He wanted to lash out, betrayed by his body and by the one who'd promised to keep his secret.

But more than any of that, apparently, he just wanted to be held together. He let his head fall against Kurt's shoulder, focused his breathing, forced back the tears, and just... was.

-TBC

AN: I envisioned the competition venue being one of those hotel/convention center type places so they don't have to bus back to their rooms, just take the elevator.


	5. Downtown Letdown

Blaine didn't know how long he let himself be pillowed against Kurt's shoulder. Right there in the middle of the hallway where just an hour ago dozens of competitors and chaperones had bustled back and forth, darting between rooms and running choreography to make sure their costumes would handle the stress, he knew he should've felt exposed, should've worried who would see, _what_ they'd see, if they'd care. He didn't. He didn't feel the foreign stares, didn't hear the hushed whispers, the dragging footsteps of the final stragglers as they rubbernecked their way past. They couldn't touch him here, couldn't find him in his sanctuary, nose buried against the sweat-damp collar of Kurt's shirt and breathing deep. This was safe. This was sound. This was them and no one else.

"Blaine, honey, are you okay?" Ms. Pillsbury crouched beside them, her hand on his shoulder shaking slightly, but her voice steady. Blaine didn't care to answer.

The door to the staircase grated open and then slammed closed again, the metal clank of the mechanism followed by hasty footsteps across the low pile carpet. Blaine didn't care to look, though he recognized the potent scent of Biofreeze and Gold Bond and knew Coach Beiste had joined the party, apparently having left Sue to wrangle the rest of the group back to their seats.

"How are you, punkin'?"

"Do we need to call an ambulance?" Mr. Schue asked.

Oh God, not that.

Blaine let his head roll off of Kurt's shoulder and back against the door, eyes shut tight as the world kept rolling long after his head stopped. "No. I'm fine. Usually I don't even notice when that happens, but that one really sucked." He did a quick mental assessment. Other than the lingering vertigo, he felt better. "I think it's fine now. I just needed to lie down for a few minutes, and I couldn't get in the room."

"Well, clearly yours and mine definitions of 'fine' do not jive," Beiste drawled, "'Cause you look like you just made 2.7 seconds on bull named Fu Manchu."

"I still have your pills in my bag. Do you need those?" Emma offered.

Blaine laughed, at least his mouth curled up at the corners and some sound came out. Whether it was because his current mental deficit allowed him to fully appreciate the colorful verbiage of Shannon Beiste or because of the unintentional irony of Miss Pillsbury's helpfulness, he didn't know. "Thanks, but that would be a really bad idea. A second dose this close to the first might cause my blood pressure to bottom out."

"I'm with Shannon on this one, Blaine; you definitely don't look fine." Schue, his normal observant self. "We need to at least talk to your doctor. Do you have his number?"

Kurt sniffed out of their embrace, a hand on Blaine's shoulder to make sure he didn't tip once Kurt moved away, and rocked back on his knees. "I have it," he said, reaching for his wallet. At Blaine's incredulous look, he added, "What? You and my dad have the same doctor. Of course I have the number." He pulled out the doctor's card along with the room key, handing the former to his teacher before standing and offering a hand to Blaine.

Blaine clamped his eyes shut against the vertigo and shook his head. "Now that I'm down here, I think I need to just stay here for a while."

"Oh, the hell you will," Shannon argued, and before he could protest, he was hoisted up against her chest. A moment later, they were inside the room where the air conditioning was turned up high enough that he could practically see his breath now that everyone had cleared out, and the blast of cold against his sweaty skin made him flinch. She deposited him on one of the beds and helped him roll onto his side, knees drawn up slightly in the recovery position.

Kurt pulled the comforter over him and brushed the back of his hand against the span of throat beneath Blaine's exposed ear. "I'll get you something to drink."

With his eyes closed, Blaine didn't feel obligated to engage in the bustle around him, barely registering the murmur of voices as Mr. Schuester got his doctor on the phone. He felt his arm lifted, Beiste's fingers prodding over his pulse point.

"Blaine?" Schue was trying to get his attention.

"Hmm?"

"I have your doctor on the phone. He needs you to describe what happened."

"140," Beiste interjected, and Blaine guessed that was his heart rate, "That's not so bad." A brief pause, then she added, "Seems to be coming down."

"It was just a sharp pain. Couldn't catch my breath. I thought it was a muscle spasm. Then it happened again, and I got a little dizzy. Mostly now I'm just dizzy, but my medicine does that sometimes."

Mr. Schuester relayed Blaine's account and added, "He's sweating pretty profusely and his pulse is 140. Kurt's getting him something to drink."

Schue shouted into the adjoining hotel room, "Kurt, the doctor says to give him..."

"Gatorade, not water," Kurt finished for him as he rushed out with an open bottle of orange Gatorade. "For the electrolytes."

Blaine hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he had a sip, and then Kurt had to remind him not to gulp.

"You'll make yourself sick." Kurt took the bottle and handed Blaine a towel to wipe the sweat dripping into his eyes.

"Yes, he's talking and drinking, still complaining of dizziness, though," Schue said, nodding along with the person on the other end of the phone call. "Okay, thank you, Doctor." He shut the phone and ran a hand over his hair before crouching down in front of Blaine.

"So, the doctor said it was probably an exercised-induced arrhythmia but not a serious one, since your heart rate is not overly elevated and coming down. He wants you to stay where you're at, no sudden movements until your pulse is below 80. Drink the Gatorade," and he nodded toward Kurt, "for the electrolytes, and then as long as the vertigo passes and you feel up to it, you can get up. Just take it easy and schedule an appointment to see him as soon as we get back to Lima."

"120," Shannon announced, sliding his arm back up onto the bed.

Blaine took a couple more sips of the sports drink, nodding along with the doctor's instructions, since he'd already guessed what they'd be. "See. I told you. I'm fine."

"Blaine, honey, we all know that's not true." Of course, it would be Ms. Pillsbury. Kurt and Schue both had their mouths open to protest, but she beat them to the punch, a fact for which Blaine was disappointed, as he could've argued with either of them in a snap. Something about Ms. Pillsbury, though, was just disarming, and all he could do to retort was look away.

"Blaine," Kurt sighed, "You told me you would take it easy and leave the stage if you needed to."

"I-I know. I got carried away. It just...everything was going so well. It was amazing right up until it wasn't, and even then, I kept thinking there wasn't much left, and I really wanted to finish it." He didn't mean it to come out sounding like an apology, but Kurt sat down next to him, pulled Blaine's hand across his lap, palm up and massaged the inside of his wrist with the pad of his thumb. Blaine knew he was forgiven.

Schue wasn't so quick to let it go. "I'm not thrilled that you knowingly put yourself at risk out there, Blaine. I didn't even know about your condition, or I wouldn't have let you go out there."

"Which is exactly why I didn't tell you," Blaine huffed. He let his head sink into the pillow, met Mr. Schuester's gaze blearily through half-lidded eyes. "Look, I was diagnosed right after Regionals. We'd just gotten our green light for Nationals. I've never been to Nationals! You have no idea..." He glanced away and down at their hands where Kurt continued to minister with soft strokes along his pulse point and across the pad of this thumb.

"They made me give up coffee. They made me give up boxing. Told me not to run or jump on furniture or lift or carry. A whole list of things I did every day, and another whole list of things I didn't know I wanted to do until I couldn't, and they told me not to do them. _And_ I'm supposed to be grateful they found it as soon as they did, because now they're saving my life. But it doesn't feel like they're saving my life. It feels like they're taking it away." Kurt stopped stroking over his wrist and instead flattened Blaine's hand between both of his and laced his fingers together around it.

"I just wanted this one thing to be on my own terms. After we win Nationals. I'll do whatever they tell me to do, after we win Nationals. I'm sorry if I scared you, but I'm not sorry I did it." He swallowed hard and looked back up. "I'll understand if you don't want me to re-join Glee next year, Mr. Schue. I know I'm not exactly a park and bark type of singer, and if I can't dance..."

"Blaine, stop." Kurt reached down and turned his chin until their gazes locked. "You don't have to dance to bring energy to a number. You have a gift for sharing passion with an audience, and you just need your voice and a song..." He must've felt Blaine starting to dismiss his praise with a shake of his head, because he sniggered a little to himself and added, "...and a microphone stand. You're like freaking Jagger with a microphone stand."

Blaine drew back, suddenly amused. "When have you ever seen me perform with a mic stand?" A memory flickered in his head, answering his own question, "oh yeah, Prom."

"And that Young the Giant song you sang for me before Regionals."

"You hated that song," Blaine reminded him.

"I hated the content of that song. It was creepy. But you, Blaine Anderson, were a rock star."

"Really?"

Kurt opened his mouth, eyebrows raised to say something he obviously found amusing, then realized their chaperones were following the discussion and ducked his mouth against Blaine's ear before he whispered, "You totally killed the baby penguin with that song."

Blaine feigned shock. "No! Not the baby penguin! Should we sing 'Blackbird?'"

"Well, okay, then," Ms. Pillsbury blushed. "How's that heart rate coming?" And she crouched to take Blaine's other hand, wristwatch at the ready.

Mr. Schuester followed her lead and sunk down to a knee. He rested a hand on the toe of Blaine's shoe for reassurance. "Blaine, you are a part of this team, and you are welcome to participate in any way that you can for as long as you want. Finn's never been able to dance, and Sugar's never been able to sing, but yet here we all are." He huffed for a second as though he'd forgotten what an accomplishment it was to be there. "Nationals! And we killed it out there!"

"We did, didn't we?" Blaine smiled.

"78," Ms. Pillsbury announced, almost disappointed. "How do you feel?"

"Like I'm missing the show." He rolled slowly to sitting and let Kurt and Mr. Schuester both take an arm to hoist him up, staying bent at the waist for a few extra seconds to make sure he wasn't going to get dizzy again before he straightened. "Let's get down there before they give away our trophy."

He pretended not to notice the way Mr. Schue shook his head and Shannon set her red-lined mouth into a straight line of disapproval. He was fine. Crisis averted. They could stop hovering now, thank you very much.

If he let Kurt support him, though, with an arm around his waist, it was because Kurt needed to hold him together, and Blaine needed to let him.

-#-

Sue Sylvester did not skulk. Honestly, if a six-foot woman could manage to be everywhere and know everything that happened on or around the McKinley campus, it was not because she was skulking behind the hedges. That was merely one of the locations she chose to wire in her closed circuit cameras. And she definitely never stole behind the stage curtains backstage. No need. If she managed to see everything that went on in her school, including some things that had seriously made her consider investing in bionic eyeballs capable of actually unseeing something at the push of a button, it was because she was paying attention and also because no one else was.

It didn't really take secret ninja skills to steal up on a bunch of self-absorbed teenagers.

Though, she would admit that her brief but passionate affair with Michael Dudikoff, the American Ninja himself, had netted some valuable skills, not the least of which included the ability to neuter a squirrel with a throwing star at 20 yards.

Driving the Glee Club bus to and from Nationals was just one more method by which she could spy in plain sight.

Sue squinted into the overhead mirror that let her keep an eye on the bus full of exhausted glee clubbers seated behind her. She realized without more than a shrug that she had no idea how the rest of the Trouble Tones were getting home. She hoped they had plane tickets, because it was too late to go back for them, since they were already an hour into the trip, and there was no way she was turning back with Chicago morning rush hour traffic starting to pick up behind them. They had to get to McKinley during the lunch hour in order to make the 'surprise' welcome back gathering in the hallway that so far only Sue knew about.

Having left the hotel at five a.m. in order to beat the rush hour traffic, and then stopping for breakfast at a truck stop in South Bend, IN, most of the Gleeks were napping, sprawled out in individual seats with their feet up, backs propped against the windows.

Most of them were sleeping. Porcelain's American Boy doll, on the other hand, hadn't stopped chattering, yet. For a kid with a heart condition, he seemed awfully lively. It was no wonder he'd been able to quell the tension of his little health scare with a charming grin and assurances all around that he was fine, just fine, considering he didn't really leave any room for anyone to get a word of protest in edgewise.

Will and Emma weren't buying, it, apparently, since they'd put Blaine and Kurt in the front of the bus where they were close at hand in case anything happened and hadn't insisted that they sit in separate seats even though they'd separated all the other couples by at least one seat. Only the trophy was closer to the front of the bus, taking up its own seat directly behind Sue, so she had had the unfortunate privilege of being able to overhear the entire Porcelain/Tiny Dancer interaction.

From the time they pulled out of the hotel until they stopped for breakfast, Blaine went on about the competition, breaking down every piece bar by bar and expounding on how awesome it was. Then, he'd insisted on playing some game called, 'Heads Up,' where they took turns trying to guess what was written on a piece of paper they had stuck to their foreheads.

As entertaining as it was, Sue was exhausted just listening to it, and even though there seemed to be plenty of laughing and inside joking going on between the two boys, Sue could tell there was a point when even Porcelain had grown weary of the nonstop nattering.

"Blaine," she heard him ask, "aren't you even a little tired? You said you hardly slept at the hotel."

"Well, yeah, a litttle, but how can anyone sleep when we just won Nationals, Kurt? Nationals!"

Taking a look around, Kurt pointed out that no one else seemed to be having an issue with it. At which point, he reached over and picked the dark maroon Fedora off Wee Warbler's head, set it in his lap, and then threw an arm around Blaine's shoulder, pulling his shellacked head against himself as they slid down in the seat, knees propped up on the seat in front of them. "Let's just bask silently in the glow of victory for a while, shall we?"

Even with his head pillowed against Kurt's chest, Blaine's hands kept moving where he had them folded over his stomach, thumbs sliding under, around, under, around, under around each other until Kurt stilled them with his own hand over both of Blaine's.

When Blaine pouted by tilting his head back on its chest pillow and blinking his ridiculously long eyelashes, Kurt grinned down without lowering his chin from where it was rested on his fist against the window, and said, "You're disrupting my basking."

It would've been disturbing if it wasn't so disgustingly cute.

Still, Sue wondered more than once if the medication Ms. Pillsbury doled out to Blaine at breakfast time was actually heart medicine at all. How someone could stay so buzzed on beta blockers was beyond her.

The little guy was really quite an endearing bundle of talent, passion, and teenage angst. He'd missed his calling. Should've been a cheerleader. But his singing voice wasn't entirely atrocious. She couldn't quite make out the vibe she got from that one. He was either the world's most melodramatic crooner, which was impossible, because that title already belonged to Sue's own beloved Michael Bolton, or he was head over heels for one Kurt Hummel.

Though she was relieved when the bobble head finally nodded to sleep about an hour away from home, she noticed the way Porcelain slid his hand up to rest across Blaine's chest, his expression pensive and a little somber as he leaned against the window but never actually slept himself.

He needn't have lost any sleep, though. Sue had been clued in. Something wasn't quite right about that Anderson boy. Porcelain could rest assured that while he toddled off to New York, someone back at McKinley would be keeping an eye, and not just a few closed circuit cameras, on his boy toy.

Even if he made her kind of twitchy.

-#-

Eventually, Blaine would probably look back and mistakenly tell his therapist that things changed starting the day he woke up on the bus when they pulled into McKinley after wasn't when it started, but that was the first time he recognized the weight crushing down on him as something heavier than anything he'd tried to carry before, and the first time in years that he couldn't seem to shrug it off. It was impossible not to notice the shift, because he went to sleep high on life and madly in love, snuggled into Kurt's chest and filled to bursting with excitement, and woke up achingly tired with a block of ice wedged in his chest.

He wanted nothing more than to curl tighter into Kurt's chest and go back to sleep until the ache faded and he felt alive again, but they were home, and everyone was filing off the bus, so he put on his hat and his smile, took Kurt's hand as a souvenir of something that had passed in his sleep, and started preparing himself to let it go.

It was stupid, he knew, to be fixated on Kurt leaving when graduation wasn't for another week, and they still had the whole summer stretched ahead of them. Besides, he hadn't even heard back from NYADA, yet. But he would get in, and even if he didn't, Blaine knew he wasn't enough to keep Kurt in Ohio. He hadn't even been enough to keep Kurt at Dalton. Not that he'd ever, ever try to hold Kurt down. Blaine was meant to be the tail on that kite, not the string.

Maybe the constant throb in his chest made him a little needy, and maybe that was why he pressed Kurt to finally have that conversation about how they were going to deal with the whole long distance relationship _thing_ that was looming in their future. And it definitely had something to do with Blaine's willingness to accept Kurt's assurance that they were going to be okay, because if there was one thing he believed in, _needed_ to believe in, it was Kurt. Obviously, Kurt had this _thing_ figured out, and Blaine needed to stop moping and get his freaking act together so they could enjoy the time they had left.

But it was still there, that shard of frozen panic, three days later when Cooper showed up.

Yeah, Cooper showed up. Blaine wondered how he missed the memo, or if there'd even been a memo. Maybe it slipped his mind when he was sitting in the choir room watching the original New Directions perform, "Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat," watching how comfortable and familiar Kurt was with all of them, how Blaine's chair in the risers felt a thousand miles farther away. Or maybe it was one of the texts or voicemails he accidentally deleted while fumbling through his phone with shaking hands for a song to fit the assignment, a song he knew he'd never find, a song that didn't exist, and if it did, he'd never be able to sing it.

Possibly his mom told him on one of the last two mornings on her way out the door to work while Blaine slept late. To be fair, his last real class was on Tuesday and the rest of the week was study days, tying up the loose ends for the year and preparing for finals the next week, then graduation. It didn't matter if Blaine slept in, nor did it matter whether the reason he slept in was because he could or because getting up would've required an energy that he frankly didn't want to find, resolved to hold the pause button down for as long as one body physically could. If that was the case, his mother should have just texted him, because he'd learned that five texts from Kurt was the most he could ignore, even on those mornings when the rest of the world didn't matter at all.

Or maybe Kurt had told him, and Blaine had just forgotten as Kurt segued into recounting how Burt surprised him with a performance of "All the Single Ladies," in the auditorium. Blaine would have loved to see that himself, but some part of him knew it was so much better hearing Kurt tell it. Better watching the corners of Kurt's eyes crinkle in amusement while barely holding back tears, better hearing Kurt's voice rise in a squeal of delight while breaking in a mortified sob, just better the way everything was better with Kurt.

And reminded Blaine how much worse everything would be without him.

So yeah, Cooper showed up five days into what felt like the longest week of his life when Blaine should've been celebrating a win at Nationals and planning graduation party duets but was just treading water instead, water so warm it would be easier to sink into it and never come up. Cooper showed up because Mr. Schue called his mother from Chicago and his mother called the doctor and then called Cooper. Blaine wondered if she called his dad, too, why Cooper could come all the way from Los Angeles, but Dad couldn't call or be called in the middle of the very important work that he was doing helping someone else's children somewhere else.

"Hey, Squeak!" Cooper poked his head into the choir room as Kurt finished up "I'll Remember," and did his best to ruin the moment by drawing focus.

Blaine blinked a couple of times to clear his vision, making a conscious effort not to wipe at his eyes.

"Coop?" He was surprised, because yeah, missed that memo somehow, and a second later, vexed. He darted his gaze around the room, arms wrapping around his torso, not sure whether he wanted to disappear, under the chair or out the window, or wanted to make Cooper disappear instead. "Don't call me that."

Cooper strode in, arms spread out the entire length of their span, "C'mon, Blainey, you may be the most amazing, insanely talented person I know, but you're still my pipsqueak little..." a dramatic pause and a diminutive hand gesture that implied Blaine was a good two feet shorter, because _Cooper_ , "... little brother."

Obnoxious and condescending or not, Cooper showing up seemed to open a window and stir up some of the dust Blaine felt settling around him. For a second, he felt lighter, light enough to cross the room, clasp his brother briefly with a clap and a rub and clear his throat of stagnant choke.

"What are you doing here?"

"Mom didn't tell you? She has to go out of town with that convention tour thing she does and asked me to come and take you to your doctor's appointments." He caught sight of Mr. Schue, floated a hand out from ten feet away, pulled him into a handshake that morphed into an awkward one-armed man hug. "Will I Am! Head slave driver! Congrats on the big win!"

"Thanks. You heard about that?"

"Yeah, yeah. Way to go. Blaine and Kurt have both given me the play by play."

"You didn't have to come all the way from L.A.." Kurt swung by his seat to pick up his bag and joined the conversation. "Blaine and my dad have the same doctor. We'd be happy to take him to his appointment. Or we would've if he'd told us when it was." Kurt shook Cooper's hand, other hand on his elbow, while fixing Blaine with an expression that was both confusion and disappointment.

"Pretty sure. I'm. Right. Here," Blaine muttered. "And I don't remember anything about an appointment."

"You see, Mom said you'd been distracted and you'd forget."

"I'm not distracted."

"Besides, a little bird told me that one Kurt Hummel graduates in a week, and his party is going to be the event of the summer."

"That it will," Kurt beamed. "So you got the invitation? It didn't come postage due, did it?"

"It was hard to miss an origami unicorn covered in rainbow glitter. My credit card statements and water bills are still coming out sparkly."

"Wait, so you're staying for a whole week?" Blaine could still do math.

"Better than that, I'm staying for ten days, and then I'm taking you back to L.A. Whattaya say? Now that the Six Flags gig is kinda off the table for the summer, you've finally got time for an extended visit."

Blaine's neck flushed the way it still did whenever someone brought up his limitations in mixed company. He rubbed at it with his palm as though the breadth of his hand was enough to block out the unwanted attention.

He'd really liked that Six Flags gig.

"But I was planning on spending my summer with..."

"Kurt can come, too," Cooper offered. He raised his eyebrows in Kurt's direction expectantly.

"Actually, my Dad and I are taking a trip to New York to look for apartments the week after graduation." Kurt ducked his gaze in Blaine's direction, fixating on the exposed skin of his bare ankles. "He just called me at lunch to let me know it's a go. I was going to tell you tonight."

"Oh," he said, squelching back the urge to say something way more melodramatic like, 'and so it begins.' Sure, it was only a week, but disappointment slid down his spine like a line of ants.

"Heey, why the face, Blainers? I thought you'd be excited." Cooper's voice raised just enough for Blaine to know he was only reciting a script for the benefit of the other ears in the room, and the real conversation was being back burnered for later. "Anyway," he made a motion to herd Blaine toward the door, "we have an appointment to get to. I'm assuming you're done with these guys for the day, Will? I'm gonna take Kurt, too. We'll do dinner after. Sound good?"

Mr. Schuester nodded and waved them out. Cooper didn't waste the opportunity to blow mock kisses and wave to the rest of New Directions before sweeping into the hallway. He wedged himself between Blaine's messenger bag and Kurt's hip and tossed an arm over each of them as they sauntered down the hallway. "They love me," he sniffed.

-#-

For all his pompous bluster and larger than life fake charm (it seemed Blaine was the only real thing in the whole Anderson family) Cooper morphed into something resembling any other forcibly self-absorbed person when imprisoned in the waiting room of the doctor's office. He flipped through the same stack of germ-laden magazines with the same expression of life-in-limbo twitchiness that came from having to take time out of life to address things they spent most of the rest of their lives pretending didn't exist.

Between Burt's appointments, and now Blaine's, Kurt had already read every magazine in this particular waiting room, and since Cooper was currently manhandling a copy of Good Housekeeping, he figured there was no reading happening there, either.

"You know, you really didn't have to fly all the way here. My dad or I would be more than happy to bring him to his appointments when your mom's on business."

"So, you knew about today?" It was a pointed question, which ironically did not involve any finger pointing on Cooper's part.

"Well, no..." Kurt conceded, "but Blaine's been distracted. What with Nationals, and finals, Mr. Schue's goodbye assignments, and NYADA letters go out this week, and..."

"Yeah, I get it. I remember what it's like." He rolled up the magazine and tapped it against his knee. "And I know my brother. If he didn't conveniently forget the appointment, he'd go by himself just to avoid asking someone to go out of their way."

"Which is kind of ironic when you think about it, because when he's on stage, he has no trouble drawing focus." A small nostalgic laugh as Kurt remembered what it was like watching Blaine with the Warblers, what it was like for Kurt. Blaine had said the Warblers were like rock stars, but to Kurt, Blaine was the star. "I may have chided him a little about the Warblers being Blaine and the Pips, but he really was the star of that group."

"Wait, you didn't really say that to him, did you?"

"Say what? Blaine and the Pips?" Kurt shrugged. "Sure I did. If you'd ever sat through one of those Council meetings, you'd know exactly where I was coming from when I said it. They didn't even present a song for consideration unless it could be arranged in Blaine's normal key." He dropped his gaze. All that faith and admiration the Council had put in Blaine was never undeserved, "Okay, so I was a little jealous when I said it, but Blaine got it. He proposed a dual lead after that," and yet Blaine had shared it with Kurt.

Cooper raised his eyebrows, knowingly, "Because you deserved it or because he wanted you to have it?" Cooper's question was accompanied by just enough reticence as to pique Kurt's curiosity.

"I'm sorry, I... huh?"

Cooper dropped the rolled up magazine back onto the end table and instead strummed his fingertips against each other, forearms braced on his thighs. "Kurt, I gotta be upfront with you, here. Mom asked me to come and spend some time with Blaine, because she thinks he's too wrapped up... in you."

Kurt's heart thudded against his sternum, knocked his breath back into his lungs, one spike of dread gagging any coherent response. Dread, though, not surprise. After a beat, he managed to speak, if in a higher key than normal. "Me? But I thought your mom liked me? She's always been..."

Cooper sat up. "No. No, she loves you. She is so relieved that Blaine found someone like you. I mean, she's always been so worried about him, not sure what to expect, you know since..."

"Since he's gay."

"Well, yeah," Cooper acknowledged, "but that's just her worrying about things she doesn't know about, and we all do that."

"So, this is not about that."

"No. In fact, if you were in a relationship with Blaine, and you were a girl, she'd feel the same way."

"Okaay? So what is this about?"

"It's about Blaine making you the center of his whole universe and Mom wondering what will happen to him when you leave for New York, because that's something she does know about."

Kurt felt a _bitch puhlease_ moment sneaking up on him, because no matter how he phrased it, it felt like an accusation. "For your information, Blaine and I are... still hashing out the details about what our relationship is going to be like while I'm in New York and he's here, but I resent any implication that I'm just running off and leaving him here high and dry. He wants me to go. He even arranged my whole NYADA audition piece, which was a-maaazing."

Cooper moved one seat closer to Kurt, possibly aware that the volume of their conversation had risen enough to gain a disapproving eyebrow raise from the receptionist. "Of course he did; he would give you the world, Kurt. You have to know that."

He did. On some level, he did know that. "I'd do the same for him."

"Okay, I'm sure that's true, but can you even tell me what he wants other than you?" Cooper twisted in his seat like he was demonstrating turning into a pose for headshots, but it brought him into direct eye contact with Kurt. "Or better yet, just tell me what's left for him here once you're there. Tell me that he didn't spend the whole last year putting all your needs and dreams ahead of his own, and that he's not going to just implode once you're gone... like he did after Dad left."

The bitch died. Every comeback and ounce of righteous indignation fizzled out of existence at the mention of Blaine's dad, the one thing that he and Blaine never actually talked about. Kryptonite. "I can't say that won't happen again, because... well, because I don't know what happened in the first place. He won't talk about it."

"Well, you need to ask him." Cooper glanced over Kurt's head and straightened in his chair as Blaine emerged from the doctor's office. "So, what's the good word, Squirt?"

Kurt stood up and handed Blaine his bag, which Blaine adjusted over his shoulder as he shrugged. "Oh, you know, nothing new. He said what happened at Nationals was probably a short run of something they call a nonsustained ventricular tachycardia, which is to be expected with strenuous exercise, or possibly a very short sustained one which resolved on its own. Either way, I'm officially banned from dancing... and jumping on furniture. So, nothing we didn't already kind of know. He thinks we should do the Holter monitor again once school starts back in the fall. That, and he really wants me to consider the ICD."

He took Kurt's hand as they headed out of the office.

"Are you?" Kurt asked. "Considering the ICD, I mean."

Blaine stroked his thumb over Kurt's. "Yes and no. I get why they want me to have it, but at the same time, the whole idea of it freaks me out a little."

"Well," Kurt offered, leaning into Blaine's shoulder as they walked, "when you're ready to think about it more seriously, I'll help you draw up some lists. You know, pros, cons, deal breakers, other options."

"What," Blaine smirked, "no dewy meadows, lilacs, or shirtless werewolves?"

"Oh, the life I never lived," Kurt sighed wistfully, dropping his head to Blaine's shoulder.

Blaine tipped his head back a little to whisper into the hair behind Kurt's ear, "Lilacs are in season. I could turn the lawn sprinklers on and growl."

"Oh my God! I did not just hear that," Cooper grimaced.

"Where we eating, Coop?" Blaine waggled his eyebrows and fixed his free hand into a claw. "I'm feeling a little... hungry like a wolf."

Cooper mock gagged. "I'm so traumatized right now."

-TBC

AN: Sorry for the filler. You can't have a mega payoff without a ton of buildup. I promise a mega payoff. Thanks for hanging with me.


	6. Forget to Remember

**AN:** Thanks to everyone who's following and leaving such thoughtful comments (especially those of you on AO3). To the anonymous guest commenter, I want to say that, yes, Blaine's messed up, and yes, a diagnosis is coming, starting this chapter, but as mental illness is hard to diagnose, it's not really as simple as it seems, and you were spot on with one of your guesses.

 **AN:** I got a little carried away with the song lyrics in this one. I apologize if that bothers you. I had intended to not use songs in the story, but it's Glee, so it happened.

 **Warnings:** This chapter contains mentions of depression and possible suicidal ideation. It's not graphic and deals with something that happened in the past, so it's not overly intense, but it's there.

This part: 9200/200,000

If Blaine was to believe commemorative wall plaques, Glee was about opening yourself up to joy-so sayeth Lilian Adler (or so saideth, being that she was dead). Too bad, that, because Blaine would've liked to ask her what happened when your heart was wide open but all the joy had left the building. Blaine had always brought it, and his calling card performance was upbeat and fun. He liked to think he brought the glee to Glee.

But he just wasn't feeling it.

Try as he might, he couldn't think of one original sentiment for any of the graduating seniors except Kurt, and Kurt was only going to New York, promised Blaine that wasn't goodbye.

He could think of at least a half dozen or so sentiments he might actually be able to sing about for Finn. Once they'd ironed out their differences, they really had become good friends, but he was Kurt's brother and, hence, not going anywhere either. Not really.

As for the rest of them? Nothing really song worthy came to mind. Sure, he liked them all well enough, but the more he tried to pin down what he'd miss about Mercedes, or Quinn, Puck, Mike, or Rachel, the more he just kept coming back to how small the choir would be without them-how empty the room would be-nothing worth singing about that wouldn't come across as ironic or just plain inappropriate. If he was going that direction, then he might just as well pick a song for Santana, which he had half decided would be a mash-up between Cyndi Lauper's "True Colors," and "So Long, Farewell," from The Sound of Music.

So, if Blaine was distracted, sometimes forgetful, sometimes perhaps purposely ignorant, well he had other things on his mind. He was most definitely not stupid or gullible enough to believe Cooper didn't have ulterior motives for coming to Lima. Cooper didn't do casual visits, didn't visit at all for more than a couple of days, and since he was also smart enough to write off Cooper's Master Class advice about ignoring scene partners, Blaine knew he wasn't going to like what was coming.

"What are you doing here, Coop?"

When he popped the cap off a beer and handed it to Blaine with the refrigerator door still wide open, then plinked his own bottle cap onto the countertop, Cooper was obviously trying to work backward through a joke he'd already heard the punchline to. Blaine decided against mentioning his alcohol restriction in favor of giving Cooper credit for trying and took a tiny sip, watching Cooper stumble over himself out of the corner of his eye.

"Isn't it obvious?" he flailed, beer in one hand and colander in the other. "Making dinner for my baby brother."

The pot of spaghetti seemed to absorb the tension from the room and boiled over at that precise moment, a flash and a hiss as the flames licked up the side of the stainless steel and left a black smudge in its wake.

"Ah, crap!" Cooper's beer dribbled down his chin and sloshed onto the counter. A quick wipe of his sleeve across his mouth, and he grasped the lid, forced the foam down as the other hand cut the heat. He waited a few seconds, then cautiously lifted the lid. Seemingly satisfied that the water wouldn't try to climb out, he dropped the lid back onto the stovetop with a clang and switched off the sauce as well.

Crisis averted, Cooper took another swig off his beer and reached under the counter for the colander, flicking his gaze up to where Blaine was leaning over the opposite side of the counter, fingers laced around the beer bottle, his thumbs twiddling over the label. Blaine met his gaze, oddly unfazed by the commotion. Cooper never did anything without some theatricality. If the smoke detector wasn't going off, dinner wasn't ready yet.

"You know what I mean," Blaine returned flatly. "Boiling water has never really been part of your skill set. You only do it for hot dates and uncomfortable conversations. What are you doing _here_ , Coop?"

"C'mon, Blainey! It's comfort food. We're going to gorge ourselves on spaghetti and beer, kick our feet up on the coffee table and pass out watching reality television... which is mostly scripted, you know? I actually auditioned for this one about struggling actors in the cutthroat world of serial commercials and they sent me ten pages of sides."

"Coop."

"Ten pages," he repeated, trailing off. He dumped the cooked spaghetti into the colander, shoulders sagging briefly inside the cloud of steam that billowed out of the stainless steel sink and stood there as if he'd prepared a rebuttal for an opening statement no one had made and was forced to close with his lead in. "Mom and I want you to go back to Dr. Zalobny."

Nope. Didn't like it. Not one bit, but he could say he was surprised.

"I don't need to go back on the meds," Blaine glowered through an unamused huff. He blinked slowly down at the beer label peeling up under his thumbnail. "I'm fine. Great, actually."

Leaving the steaming colander of noodles in the sink, Cooper turned around and leaned back against the counter, one arm wrapped across his chest, the opposite thumb tracing back and forth over his jaw. "Look, Mom and I are worried about you, Squirt. We're not saying you need to go back on the meds. We know you hated that, but we know you've got a lot going on in your life right now. Maybe you should talk to someone about all of that, you know, so that you can deal with it before you get..."

"Get, what, Coop?"

"To the point you were at before."

"I'm not depressed," he argued. "I'm getting great grades, our show choir just won Nationals, and I have an amazing boyfriend. What do I have to be depressed about?" The glare he fixed on his brother was as much dare as question, inviting Cooper to say out loud what Blaine was feeling, make it real somehow, tangible to someone other than himself, less pathetic.

Cooper didn't bite. "Blaine, we all sat through those family therapy sessions..."

"Except Dad."

A slow nod. "All except Dad... and you know as well as I do that you don't need a reason to be depressed."

"Right. But I'm not."

"Mom and I are just worried that we're not available enough to you, little brother. It would make us both feel a lot better knowing you had someone to talk to even when we can't be here." He sighed. "We love you, Blaine, and we don't always know what you need us to be for you."

Blaine forgot himself for a second and took a healthy swig off his beer, felt it warm his stomach with a slosh, almost chased it with another just for the heat but remembered again and pushed it away. "I need Mom to be my mom and you to be my brother." He hadn't realized he was so much trouble.

Cooper swallowed that with a slow, deep nod, a concession in its own right, because he hadn't been there. _They_ hadn't been there, and those promises had all been made and broken before. "Okay, then, as your brother, I'm asking you to go and talk to Dr. Zalobny."

"Because I'm so much easier to deal with when I'm medicated, is that it?" He set his beer down hard enough for a good slug of it to slosh out onto the counter, then gave it a shove so it was out of arms reach, couldn't trust himself not to do something stupid with it.

"No. It's not like that. Not-not at all." Cooper stammered, and Blaine liked having the power, however brief, to shake that stalwart overconfidence, drop him into a scene he couldn't steal. He took a breath, arms braced on the counter behind him. "I don't like worrying about you, Blaine."

"Then don't. Just go back to California for another eight years or so. It'll fade."

"Do you even hear yourself?" He dropped his eyes, clamped them shut with a shake of his head, jaw clenching. "You said you needed me to be your brother. I'm trying to do that."

"Try harder." Blaine's expression mirrored is brothers, his own jaw jumping slightly as the words ground out between them.

"I'm here, Blaine. I got on a plane, and I came. I'm standing here right now. That's all I know how to do. And believe it or not, this is where I want to be. Here. With my brother. His name's Blaine. Maybe you've met him?"

Blaine's jaw loosened on its hinge, anger releasing its tetany. Crossing his arms, he dropped his gaze to the side. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not yourself, Blaine. You know it. I know it. Mom knows it. I want my brother back. I want to go back to duets and dueling Chopsticks on the piano, to making thinly veiled jabs about your bowties and bony ankles so you can make fun of my moped and soap opera cameos and not have to feel like you're waiting for me to leave so you can drop the act."

For all of his bluster and put upon theatrics, some part of Cooper was real after all. Some part of him felt. Some part of him noticed. Blaine fidgeted under his gaze, fingers circling one wrist and twisting back and forth, because he didn't know what to do with that revelation.

"Just talk to her Blaine. For me. For us. So we can be brothers again." Both arms crossed now, Cooper held his elbows as if he'd split apart if he let go, no finger pointing, no raised voice; his eyes didn't even come off the floor until after he'd finished speaking, and when they did, they were glassy and real.

Blaine's heart gave a heavy thud. "Just to talk?"

Cooper cleared his throat, but still rasped around his words. "Just to talk."

He nodded, just once, too tired for argument, not sure he had one to make. With so much ending, a new beginning could change the tide. He wanted his brother back, too. "Okay."

-#-

So, Blaine talked to the doctor. It was easier than he remembered, probably because they'd done this before and could, therefore, skip all the introductions and niceties and get straight down to the business at hand. They slipped easily into the familiar dialogue, teasing banter that slid his broken responses together with her pointed observations until he was zipped back into his own skin again. The teeth never quite matched up, losing grip and pulling apart, incapable of holding himself together. He was made aware just how permeable he'd become, how much of himself he'd let ooze out.

Blaine had forgotten how draining the sessions could be.

And clarifying.

A year and a half since his last appointment, longer since his last dose of antidepressants, and it took just one hour to windshield wiper away any illusion he'd been entertaining that he was coping just fine on his own. This funk he was in hadn't just started, not with the slushy or the surgery, not with Chandler, ARVC, NYADA, or Graduation. It was just there, had been there, and got deeper the better he got at spackling over it, until he was only aware of the gaping hole in his soul by the massive amount of energy it took to keep the patch from cracking-until he was just too tired to do it anymore.

Yeah, he was depressed and had been since before Sectionals. It was just the finality of Nationals and Graduation, having less to look forward to than to remember, that had set the cement.

He was stuck.

So, he wasn't surprised when he walked out of the office with a familiar diagnosis and a prescription for drugs he already knew all the side effects for-a smaller dosage this time, though, and a reassurance that it wouldn't interact with his heart medicine. He _was_ surprised at how terrified he was to tell Kurt. He'd been living with the misconception that this was something he'd kicked, that it was done, over, past, and now he wasn't only a complete failure at maintaining his own mental health, but apparently a liar, too, since he'd never presented himself as anything other than... fine.

That's where his mind was when Kurt knocked at the door. A glance at the clock, and Blaine realized school had been out for half an hour, one more day in their last school year together gone. Sure, it was mostly a throwaway day for the Seniors, Graduation already having taken place the Saturday before, with just a few finals left to take before transcripts would be set and ready to send out, but Blaine was sorry he'd missed it. When he opened the door, saw Kurt's glazed eyes, the skin on his cheekbones red and tight, he knew he'd missed more than just a throwaway day. Something big.

"Kurt?"

The word was barely out of his mouth before Blaine was tackled and crushed against the wall in his foyer, barely missing the brass sconce.

"I got in! I got in! I got in!" Kurt kissed the news into Blaine's sideburns, his arms wrapped so tightly that Blaine could barely maneuver his hands onto Kurt's hips, thumbs in belt loops, and fingers splaying into the small of his back.

"What? NYADA?" He grinned, the air squeezed from his lungs as he sank into the embrace, would've spun them around, were he not being climbed like a tree. "Kurt, that's amazing! Congratulations! You deserve it so much!"

Kurt finally broke the full body glomp he'd placed on Blaine and leaned back, hands on shoulders as he put enough space between them to duck into eye contact. "I never could've done it without you. Your audition piece was the clincher. I'm sure of it. I don't know how I'll ever thank you enough."

He leaned back in again, this time his arms high around Blaine's shoulders and sighed into dark hair, his breath a caress that lulled Blaine's eyes closed where they were nestled against the smooth length of Kurt's neck, Kurt's body still a tight thrum against him.

Blaine tilted his head back, mouth against Kurt's ear and whispered, "Songs don't get into NYADA, Kurt. Singers do. _You_ did. Because you're amazing, and Carmen Tibideaux knows it, and pretty soon, everyone is going to know it."

Despite Blaine's undying assurances to the contrary, Kurt's own doubt about his chances of getting accepted must have been stronger than even Blaine knew, because the quiver around him only heightened as they clung together, all the uncertainty and months of suspense erupting to the surface, punctuated with hitching breath.

Kurt whispered into his hair, "I wanted you to be there. I wanted to tell you first, but you never came back from your lunch with Cooper." He leaned back once more, his expression dimmed from barely contained excitement to transparent concern. "Are you okay? Where were you?"

And Blaine hated that he'd somehow tainted Kurt's moment, squelched his celebration, even more that he was about to do it again, but he knew if he didn't say it now, it'd get swallowed down into that pit of denial and doubt and not be seen again until it pulled them both down into it.

"Kurt..." Blaine ducked his head, rubbing at the knot of tension in the nape of his neck as he took Kurt's hand. "Let's sit."

He led them to the music room, just the opposite side of the foyer, and sat Kurt at the bench of the upright piano on the far wall. He preferred the baby grand in the sitting room for performing, but for the quiet introspective moments and creativity, this corner, just the varnished wood and the foggy reflection of himself in it, offered a safe confidence and clarity he couldn't get in the exposed setting of the sitting room.

Blaine stroked his thumb over the pulse point in Kurt's wrist, reveling at the thrum of life and togetherness, the way his own fingers tingled, and let the quiet of this safe place wrap around them. With a soft smile, he leaned in, pressed a kiss Kurt's temple then settled back on the bench, facing the keys.

"A song?" he offered.

Eyes glassy and wide, Kurt studied him, his nod barely perceptible as Blaine's fingers picked up the melody of their own accord.

( **Ben Folds, The Luckiest** )

 _I don't get many things right the first time,_

 _In fact, I am told that a lot_

 _Now I know all the wrong turns the stumbles,_

 _And falls brought me here_

 _And where was I before the day_

 _That I first saw your lovely face,_

 _Now I see it every day_

 _And I know_

 _That I am, I am, I am, the luckiest_

The music synergized with the gut wrenching terror in his stomach, made him giddy and hot, a laugh tickling in the back of his throat. He let the music fade a little softer, stuck in a loop as he leaned into Kurt with a smirk.

"And if I'd had a chance to think this through, I'd have rewritten this verse to say something about spiral staircases, skylights and adorable spies, but since this is kind of impromptu, we'll just take it, as is... even if it's a little pedo stalkery."

The music swelled louder again as Blaine turned back to the front board, leaning into the keys with his whole body.

 _What if I'd been born fifty years before you_

 _In a house on the street_

 _Where you lived_

 _Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike. Would I know?_

 _And in a wide sea of eyes_

 _I see one pair that I recognize_

 _And I know_

 _That I am, I am, I am, the luckiest_

Coming to the bridge, Blaine turned to Kurt, face red as he wrung every ounce of sincerity from within himself and poured it out.

 _I love you more than I have_

 _Ever found the way to say_

 _To you_

For the final verse, he slowed everything down, pulled himself back together, the fireworks on instant rewind, beginning and ending with the choke of powder and smoke, felt his throat tighten, chest clog with the emotion he forced himself to swallow back down.

 _Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties and one day_

 _Passed away in his sleep,_

 _And his wife, she stayed for a couple of days, and passed away_

 _I'm sorry I know that's a_

 _strange way to tell you that I know we belong,_

 _That I know_

 _That I am, I am, I am, the luckiest._

His fingers stayed splayed, hovering over the keyboard as if to draw the power and magic out of it and into himself, while his chin dipped, eyes closed around his gathering thoughts, not sure what to say.

"Blaine?" The quiver in Kurt's voice added urgency, ignited that inherent need to quiet and to soothe, forced the last held breath from Blaine's lungs so that there was finally room to draw a full one back in.

His hands levitated from the keyboard, his entire body rotating as he took both of Kurt's in his, looked up without lifting his head.

"Kurt... I have to tell you something, and I need you to just listen for me. Can you do that?"

Kurt's mouth opened, then closed before he gave a tight nod, turning his hands in Blaine's so they were palm to palm and then closing them together, pulled down into Kurt's lap as he straightened, shoulders back. Ready.

"First, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to ruin your big moment. The last thing I want to do is cast a shadow on this huge, amazing accomplishment. You've been waiting for so long, and I wish the timing wasn't what it is, but if I don't say this now, I'm going to lose the nerve to do it, and I don't ever want to keep anything from you, Kurt."

"Remember when I told you that the reason I'd been distant during Whitney week was because I was going to doctor's appointments and dealing with this whole heart... thing?"

Kurt nodded, his chin starting to tremble noticeably.

"Well, it was only partly true." He looked down at their clasped hands, lifted them and set them back down again with a cleansing breath before continuing. "I was also practicing."

"P-practicing? For what, exactly?"

Blaine met Kurt's gaze. "For what it's going to be like living without you." He could see the familiar protest bubbling up through Kurt the way it always did when Blaine tried to discuss their looming separation, and he tightened his grip, willing Kurt into silence, because he couldn't be put off with romantic notions inspired by "The Notebook," anymore. This had to be said.

"I want to believe you when you say everything's going to be fine, Kurt. I want that to be true so badly, but I have to be prepared to face it with something more than just hope. I need more than that, and I know I need it, because I don't have a very good track record with these things."

Kurt's prepared denial quickly morphed into an expression of confusion. "Blaine, you're not going to be alone..."

Blaine raised a hand. "Please, just let me finish."

With a slight slump to his shoulders, Kurt conceded with a squeeze of his fingers over Blaine's.

"Before I transferred to Dalton, I spent some time in the hospital, as you know." He took a deep breath and let it out again, returning Kurt's squeeze. "What you don't know is that, before that, I'd been working really hard on patching things up with my dad. We hadn't really been the same, you know, since I came out. He wasn't so much in denial as he just didn't really seem to know what he was supposed to do now that I was gay. But we'd been working on it. We were getting to a place, I thought, where we were comfortable with each other. We did things together, and sometimes he even let me pick, like he was trying to understand me, you know. Of course, I usually picked something I knew he wanted to do anyway. In fact, I don't think I did anything without considering whether it would make him proud of me again."

He let himself pause briefly, the old turmoil bubbling up in his gut, slow and hot as if through tar.

"Right before... well, right before I got hurt, Dad found out he got accepted into Doctors Without Borders. It wasn't a surprise. He'd been talking about signing up for years, always wanted to go and practice somewhere that would just let him help people without all the bureaucracy and crap he had to deal with over here. We all knew he applied and supported that, but at the same time he'd always promised not to leave before Cooper and I both graduated and were out of the house."

"But he didn't," Kurt filled in.

"No. I still don't really know what happened. He was here when I got hurt, sat with me for hours, argued with my doctors to make sure I got every chance to make a full recovery. He was the one who suggested Dalton and didn't even bat an eye at the tuition as long as I was safe there. He was there every step of the way, and then he just…wasn't. DWB offered him the chance to go to Syria. They're building hospitals to handle the casualties from the war and need good doctors. Lots of them, I guess. And he went. He just went. I still don't know what I did…" he hesitated, knew not to say 'wrong' even if that's what he felt must've happened. "I guess I was doing so well with my recovery that he thought I didn't need him." He shrugged. "Maybe they just needed him more." He let his mind quiet for a second before continuing. "I know my parents had been arguing more. About me. Maybe it was just an easy out."

"Blaine, it's not your fault. There had to be more going on than they let you in on. I'm sure they don't blame you."

Blaine shrugged and scrubbed one hand over his face. "It doesn't really matter whether it was my fault or not. At the time, I felt like it was. If I hadn't gotten hurt... And it wasn't even just the guilt. It was... I never realized how much effort I was putting into trying to make my dad proud until he wasn't there he wasn't there, it was like, I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing anymore. Everything in my life was only important to me because it was important to him, and without him, none of it mattered. I was so... lost."

"Baby, I'm so sorry he did that to you," Kurt apologized. He brushed his thumb over Blaine's cheekbone, turning his head up to cement their gaze. "But you have to know, I never would. It's not going to be like that for you and me. I love you, so much."

Blaine let his head lean into Kurt's touch but dropped his eyes. "You don't understand, Kurt. It's not you that I don't believe in... It's me... That's what this song was about. You are the love of my life, Kurt, and I know that. I believe in that with all of my heart. I don't want you ever to think that I don't know how lucky I am, and I especially don't want you ever to think that anything that… happens is your fault."

"Wait. I don't think I follow. What's going to happen, Blaine? Blaine!"

Despite his resolve to stay strong, Blaine felt himself curl inward, braced against a punch to the gut that was either coming or fading. "When Mom and Cooper realized I wasn't exactly coping with Dad being gone, (a little incident involving me leaving the car running without opening the garage door) they put me in therapy," a hand to the back of his neck brushed away the gazes he felt boring into him, despite no one else being there, "and I was diagnosed with depression."

He let it sink in for a second, expecting more than the just the barely perceptible nod and the deepening well in the corner of Kurt's eye.

"My doctors felt like it might have been caused by my head injury. Apparently that's not uncommon, and I was okay with that, I guess, because I could look at it as an injury, something that would heal. So, I went to therapy, and they put me on antidepressants, and I transferred to Dalton, joined the Warblers, found my equilibrium, I guess. I was happy, I think, really happy, and eventually I went off the meds, stopped going to therapy, and we all just thought I was better. Then," he took Kurt by the biceps and squeezed, "I met you."

He let his fingers slide down Kurt's arms, rejoined their hands as he swung his leg over the bench so they were both straddling it, face to face. "And when I'm with you, I'm happier than I have ever been in my whole life."

"Me, too," Kurt smiled wistfully. "You make me so happy, too, and I like being that for you."

"And that hasn't changed, Kurt. You still... every minute I'm with you, I feel like nothing else matters, and it could all just go away as long as I have you."

He bowed his head and cleared his throat. "But everything else does matter, and Mom and Cooper noticed maybe I haven't really dealt with some other things, like a new school, my eye surgery, Karofsky, this heart thing, you graduating, Dad..." He took a breath before he forgot how, then let it out with a sigh. "That stuff is all still there, it-it matters, Kurt, and maybe it's all a little heavier than I was ready to admit."

He laughed ironically. As if all of the above wasn't enough, "And it turns out depression is a documented side effect of my heart medication." He shrugged, because really, there was nothing more he could say to show just how far out of his hands things had gotten. "Sooo," he stroked his thumb over Kurt's knuckles and looked up from under his eyelashes like squinting into the sun, "I went back to see my psychiatrist today. She's putting me back on the meds."

"Blaine..." Kurt's voice was choked with emotion. One of them, Blaine recognized was the guilt he'd been hoping to assuage. "That 'incident' you mentioned…?"

"In the garage?"

Kurt nodded. "Was that…? Did you try to…? Is that what you meant when you said you could relate to Karofsky?"

"Kurt, don't. I'm okay, all right? I'm not, like, suicidal or anything. I wasn't then, either. It's not like I ever intended to…hurt myself. It wasn't like that, not at all. There was just so much going on. I'd been working for months to catch up to the Dalton curriculum and was hoping to make up the rest over the summer so I wouldn't have to repeat a year, but that day they told me that they thought I should spend my summer recovering and just come back in the fall as a freshman. I was still processing, I think, and I went out in the garage after school. I did it at least once a week, ever since we finished that car. I'd go in there and just start it up, let it run for a while to keep it all lubed up and prevent the gaskets from drying out. My dad told me it was important, you know? I guess I was still trying to please him, even though he wasn't there. And I always, always, made sure the garage door was open. I don't know how I forgot that day, maybe because I was distracted, or because the weather was really bad that afternoon. I don't know, but I started the car and laid down across the seat to listen to my iPod, like I always did."

He took a minute to reflect, having forgotten or pushed aside most of his memories about those days and where his head was at back then. "Anyway, at some point, I guess I started to feel sick. I think maybe I'd fallen asleep for a minute or something, but I woke up with this pounding headache and I realized I couldn't breathe. I knew exactly what had happened, couldn't remember opening the door, and I knew I was in trouble if I didn't do something right away." He shrugged. "But I didn't. I was just so tired, felt like I'd been struggling for so long, doing everything right only to have it all turn to crap. I just didn't have the energy to do it anymore, so I didn't."

"You didn't, what, Blaine?"

"I didn't do anything. Maybe I turned the music up, maybe I even closed the car door. I don't remember, but I didn't get out of the garage, and I didn't open the door." Another long beat. "My mom came early that day. She's the one who found me."

"Blaine, I…" Kurt choked on a sob, and Blaine wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

"Don't, okay. That's not what I'm feeling now. That's not going to happen again. I don't want you to worry about that. I don't want anyone to worry. That's why I'm getting help, so it doesn't have to get that bad again. I just have to get used to the idea that this is something that's been with me and will always be with me, and you just have to be you and believe me when I say none of this is your fault. So, please don't change. I don't think I could handle it if you started treating me differently."

"Oh, honey." Blaine let himself be pulled forward until their knees bumped and his head ended up pressed into Kurt's chest while ridiculously long arms wrapped around his shoulders.

"I am so proud of you. All of you. Every color of you. I love Warbler Blaine and rock star Blaine, eyepatch Blaine and boxer Blaine, mentor Blaine and little brother Blaine... The more facets, the more sparkly the diamond, right?"

Kurt palmed the back of Blaine's neck and used the caress of his thumb under the sharp cut of jawbone to tip his head back, other hand sliding flat against the plane of chest where collarbone and shoulder separated.

"Sometimes we get to be the hero, and other times, we need to save ourselves. It takes a pretty brave guy to take off the cape when you're feeling a little airsick, even when you know everyone expects you to fly to the rescue at the drop of a hat. Blaine, I just want you to be okay. I'm proud to hold your cape for you, and hold your hand for you, and just... hold you. I'm proud to be with _you_ , Blaine. Why would you ever think I'd treat you differently?"

Blaine took Kurt's wrist and pressed a quick kiss to the pad of his thumb before sitting up straight, eyebrows quirked up, corner of his mouth turned down. "Um, maybe because ever since I was diagnosed with ARVC, you've been my part-time boyfriend and part-time nurse-slash-mother-slash-dietician, which," he patted Kurt's knees as soon as he saw the hint of a protest form behind rapidly blinking eyelashes, "I love about you, too, but which I really don't need you to do for me. And..." he shrugged, "because that's just what people do."

"What exactly do people do?" Kurt squinted, head tipped slightly askew.

"Treat you differently. I mean, think about it. Half the football players and probably half the Cheerios, need wraps, braces, cortisone shots, or painkillers to practice or perform, and no one thinks twice about it. They get, I dunno, a pat on the back and a 'way to play through the pain.'" He huffed in exasperation, suddenly intent on wiping a rogue fingerprint off the piano wood with a sleeve that he wasn't even wearing, succeeding in only making the smudge larger until his fist clenched in frustration. "But if you need help just feeling... okay... then you're weak-minded or just looking for attention. It's like, if you can't just suck it up and get over it, then you're not trying hard enough."

"And you know what? That's because they haven't met you, Blaine Anderson. Change their minds. Just be you, and they will love you like I do, like I always will."

Blaine tilted his head to match the shy smirk pulling at his cheek, the fingers in his fisted hand relaxing once again. "Aww, thank you for saying that."

"I speak only the truth, Wee Warbler."

"Wee... what?"

"Sorry, sorry." Kurt cupped Blaine's face between his hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'm sorry. You're definitely NOT wee in any shape or form." He shook his head into his palm, like he couldn't believe he'd said that aloud. "I-I think I must've heard Sue call you that. I always liked that particular epithet. That and 'tiny Sal Mineo.' I just can't help it. When you tilt your head like that, you look so adorable, I can't decide whether to squeeze your cheeks or kiss you senseless."

"Hmm, are those the only two options, and do I get a vote?"

Kurt tilted his chin up and pursed his lips in contemplation. "You can definitely make a suggestion."

"Oh, I can?"

"As part of the due diplomatic process, I'm morally bound to give you the floor, though I'm already leaning pretty strongly in favor of..."

Kurt was cut off by Blaine's lips, followed by Blaine's tongue, and a sharp intake of breath when Blaine's fingers threaded in his hair and pulled their mouths impossibly closer together.

Kurt sat back, eyes wide open, "Mmm, I guess that makes the vote 2-0. Motion passes." In his haste to draw Blaine closer, Kurt's elbow mashed several keys, a squelch of discord erupting from the piano, and he laughed. "Unless you'd rather re-enact that piano scene from 'Pretty Woman,'" he added suggestively.

Blaine chuckled, his mouth already working from the corner of Kurt's mouth along his pronounced jaw. "I like how you think," he huffed. "There's just one problem with that."

Kurt's eyes fluttered shut as he tried to maneuver his mouth back into the path of Blaine's, "And what would that be?"

Blaine reached behind himself without taking his lips off Kurt's pulse point, and dropped the fall board over the piano keys with a clunk. "It's an upright piano," he chuckled.

"That's not the only thing." Kurt smirked and proceeded with Plan A. He drew back when kissing became groping hands and groping hands fisted shirt tails out of tight jeans so that fingers could clench into freshly exposed skin. "But how sturdy is this bench, exactly?"

All in all, Blaine didn't think his news ruined Kurt's day, after all.

-#-

As accepting and amazing as Kurt was, Blaine wasn't quite ready to jump on the 'everything's gonna be alright' bandwagon. He was, however, more than willing to hang streamers, banners, tea lights, or whatever to make sure Finn and Kurt's combined graduation party was amazing. He could also bring Cooper, who happened to be the life of any party he attended. And Cooper, for whatever reason, was really looking forward to meeting Burt Hummel. That in itself would probably provide whatever entertainment might be lacking. Well, that and the jazz band, which had been coerced into playing backup for anyone who wanted to sing on the makeshift stage they were putting up in the Hudmel's basement.

It was a glee graduation party. How could there not be singing? Blaine hadn't picked a song, yet, by the day of the party, when he went over to the Hudmel's to help with the decorations. He'd kind of hoped to be recruited into a duet with someone and spare himself having to pick something, as most of his song choices of late had been mildly melodramatic and severely depressing. Cooper and Kurt already had songs, though, so unless he got recruited at the last minute, Blaine would just have to improvise.

They'd thankfully allowed themselves the whole day to decorate before the party. While, they'd already strung Chinese lanterns over the entirety of the backyard, set up the band platform in the basement and the barbecue pit on the deck, there'd also been lots of pushing each other up against trees, fences, walls, and staircases for 'coffee breaks.' As far as Blaine and Kurt were concerned, the party was pretty much already in full swing by the time the ice was in the coolers and the burgers pressed into patties.

Blaine was thankful for the distraction, thankful for anything, really, that could keep him busy, moving. Too much stillness seemed to be open invitation for that familiar spike of nausea to twist in his gut, not unlike the one he used to get from shot gunning a triple espresso back in the days before he'd developed a tolerance to caffeine. He couldn't help but imagine people looked at him and saw a photo negative image of himself, felt a preemptive surge of adrenaline at the exhausting prospect of having to spend the evening, conversing, entertaining, and just bringing it, when he wanted nothing more than to just step back and re-ignite the pilot light somewhere far away from...drafts.

He didn't want to talk with people or imagine people were talking about him. Dr. Zalobny had reminded him that candor did not equal criticism, which was good, because he was having enough candid internal monologues with himself to drain the well of criticism. If he couldn't convince himself he was fine, he definitely didn't have the energy to convince everyone else.

Maybe everyone would be too drunk to notice anything was off. Though, it was unlikely, since it wouldn't go over well to have a U.S. Congressman's house party busted for underage drinking.

He'd run out of busy work, and Kurt was getting changed while they waited for the actual guests to start arriving. He hadn't realized just how long Cooper had been in the garage talking with Burt until he found himself downstairs alone. He planted himself at the keyboard on the makeshift stage and noodled half-heartedly through a few potential song choices for the night and didn't realize his hands were shaking until Cooper came up behind him and palmed the back of his neck. When his brother took him by the wrist, a tremor vibrated in the space between their two skins, palpable like it hadn't been while his hands were busy.

"Looks like you got the stage set up, hey, Squeak? Whattaya say we jam? Gotta do sound checks, anyway."

"Sure. What do you want to sing?"

"I don't know. What was that you were just playing?"

"You should know. It's one of your indie bands from L.A." As if to make his point, Blaine picked up where he left off on the second verse of "Downtown Letdown."

 _I can't hide behind your preconceived_

 _Notions of who you think I should be_

 _Hold my tongue if you have advice_

 _If you press hard enough I might try to play nice_

 _I don't pretend to be what I'm not_

 _It's wasted energy_

 _Nothing left for me_

 _I am dying if I'm not_

 _Elated_

 _I'm not anything_

 _If I don't feel a beating_

 _And I don't feel a beating... heart_

"Louden Swain! Great band," Cooper interjected. "You're not going to sing that one tonight, though, right?"

Blaine reminded himself for the second time that candor did not equal criticism. "Probably not," he conceded. "Just tossing around whatever comes to mind. How about some Seabird?"

( _ **Seabird, This Road**_ )

 _Think I'm losing a friend, began at the end_

 _I wish it weren't so but I've gotta know_

 _Did I wait too long to say I was wrong?_

 _I wish it weren't so but I've gotta go_

 _And oh, they say this road_

 _It's a hard one, it's a dark one_

 _But if you promise to stay close_

 _We can take this, we can shake this_

"Equally depressing, little brother. But I'm going to veto that one on account of, I'm already planning to do a Seabird song at this shindig,"

"Oh yeah, which one?"

"That's a surprise, and I already have a duet partner, so get your own."

"I don't even get dibs on my own brother?" Blaine pouted.

"Or your own boyfriend," Coop teased. "Kurt's my partner in crime for the evening. "

"Is that so?" Blaine smirked.

"It is. You snooze, you lose."

"Yeah, well, the last dance will be mine, and I can guarantee there will be no snoozing, then."

"Touché!" Cooper patted him on the back. "Seriously, though. We know you've got a lot on your mind. You can do whatever song you're feeling, and we will 'ooh' and 'ahh' like we were born to back you up. Or, you know, sit this one out, and we'll make sure you don't sit alone."

Blaine bowed his head and flourished the keys once. "Thanks, Coop."

"Anytime, Squirt."

-#-

Exhausting as it was, the party didn't actually turn out to be a bad time. Things started out awkwardly, with actual relatives from both Kurt's and Finn's extended families mingling with various New Directions and McKinley cohorts. Kurt insisted on introducing Blaine to all of his cousins and aunts and uncles as his boyfriend, which had the dual effect of making Blaine feel both loved and scrutinized, adding to the pressure to put on his best Blaine for the occasion. Out and proud or not, it wasn't always worth the effort to open a conversation he didn't have the energy to follow through on.

Luckily, most people were familiar enough with Burt's work in Congress to know exactly whose house they were in, and if they had a problem with anything, they either didn't show up or didn't speak up. Blaine was more than happy to be a Wonder Twin with Kurt and then pull a Flash into the kitchen where there was plenty of melons to ball and onions to chop. And since everyone in Ohio knew someone graduating high school, most of the relatives cleared out for other parties by the time it started to get dark, leaving just classmates and friends by the time Burt and Carole shut down the grill and opened up the basement while they headed out to catch a late flight to D.C.

As luck would have it, the Mckinley High Jazz Ensemble was missing their keyboard player, so Blaine had plenty to do the rest of the night, and if he never actually got around to picking out a song of his own, it didn't really matter, because once they opened up the stage, the music never stopped.

Since it was now, apparently, their graduation anthem, Finn and Puck performed a rousing encore of Springsteen's "Glory Days," even though the lyrics didn't really lend themselves favorably to nostalgia. Sam and Artie thought they had the perfect comeback when they did Styx's "Come Sail Away," until the entire group caught onto the creepy alien abduction storyline and burst into laughter.

Entirely too much laughter. Blaine made a mental note to stick with sodas out of the cooler. Clearly the punch was spiked by then.

Bitten by the alien ear worm, Sam spent the rest of the night doing alien-themed impressions, from E.T. to Schwarzenegger in "Predator," though Blaine's personal favorite was "guy with alien erupting from his chest" from "Alien." Cooper countered with a rousing anthem as Jeff Goldblum's hairy spaceman character, Mac, from "Earth Girls Are Easy." And, not to be upstaged, Brittany and Santana picked up the theme with "Pretty Girls", Brittany as Britney Spears and Santana as Iggy Azalea.

Inspired, Blaine picked "Burning Love," from "Lilo and Stitch," and incorporated his best Elvis Presley hip swing, nearly falling off the mini stage in the process. At that point, Kurt must have figured Blaine was either drunk or could really use a break, because he sauntered onto the stage with a stool from the (locked) bar and guided Blaine by his shoulders until he was sitting on it.

"Okay, okay, as much fun as we're having with all the obscure references and our very own Glee version of 'Six Degrees of Styx,' I'm going to have to steer this particular car off the tracks. This is half my party, after all." As everyone feigned mutiny with mutterings and tossed solo cups, Kurt made his way behind the keyboard himself. "I think my boyfriend needs a break, so I may have prepared a song that I can play and sing while _he_ sits on a stool for once. And for those of you who doubt my prowess on the old black and ivory, I assure you, there are about five chords in this song."

He paused at his own self-deprecating remark and played a quick progression of all the chords, as if to prove his point, then stood and took a bow while everyone laughed.

"But seriously," his demeanor changed as he faced Blaine and stepped back behind the keyboard. "At the beginning of my Senior year, I may have passively aggressively convinced Blaine to shed his Warbler blazer in favor of making my Senior year magic by spending every minute of every day with me... and to spare him the humiliation of losing to us at Sectionals." Another laugh as Blaine's neck grew hotter by the second.

"And from burning pianos, to dwindling numbers so small we had to recruit the band members to sing, to rock salt slushies; from Tony to Michael to Michael again to Whitney; Lima Losers to National Champions; and now, NYADA student, he has been there. He made the hard times bearable and the good times not only possible but so much better than I could ever have hoped for."

He looked Blaine in the eye before going on, "And Blaine, if it's possible, I love you more now than I did even then. So, this is for you. Before I was a Gaga, I was an Alanis, and I could only dream of finding someone to sing this song to. It's not "Blackbird," but I hope it still moves you the way you move me."

 _ **(Alanis Morrissette, Head Over Feet)**_

 _I had no choice but to hear you_

 _You stated your case time and again_

 _I thought about it_

 _You treat me like I'm a princess_

 _I'm not used to liking that_

 _You ask how my day was_

The somewhat loquacious sea of 'awws' that broke in waves behind him made Blaine want to crawl under the stool. Instead he ducked his head and looked up at Kurt with a sheepish grin.

 _You've already won me over in spite of me_

 _And don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet_

 _And don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are_

 _I couldn't help it_

 _It's all your fault_

 _Your love is thick and it swallowed me whole_

And no one missed the double entendre there. Especially not Puck and Santana who cat-called while smacking Blaine on the shoulder.

 _You're so much braver than I gave you credit for_

 _That's not lip service_

More catcalls. Kurt had obviously found this song back when he was still a naïve baby penguin, and Blaine loved that about it, a reminder of how far they'd come together, and how much they'd shared. He lost himself in the memories, drifting through the verses with a steady blush rising hot on his cheeks. When he looked up again, Kurt was on the final verse, his eyes boring into Blaine, willing him to hear.

 _I've never felt this healthy before_

 _I've never wanted something rational_

 _I am aware now_

 _I am aware now_

Blaine heard.

The song ended to applause and chants of "Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss," until Blaine slid off his stool and met Kurt in the middle of the stage for a sweet, if fairly chaste kiss that might have heated up into something a little more if Cooper hadn't chosen that moment to come up behind them and wrap them both up in a hug while simultaneously prying them apart by forcing himself in between.

One armed draped around each boy, Cooper turned to the rest of the group and said, "Whattaya say, can we get an awwww, for my adorable baby brother and his hot college boyfriend?"

"AWWWWW!"

Blaine ducked his head and felt his face turn beet red as he tried to slink out from under his brother's arm to disappear somewhere in the back of the room. To his dismay, Cooper's grip tightened and sat him back down on the stool.

"Not so fast, there, Squirt. You're not getting out of the hot seat yet." This time, Cooper took the keyboard, and Kurt stood just beside him.

As Kurt adjusted the mic stand, he tapped it and then spoke, "This is something Cooper and I put together for Blaine, but at this time we'd like to invite anyone up who might've thought they'd be stuck singing behind Blaine, once he joined the team, and would now like the chance to sing _at_ him in thanks for not stealing all of your solos. You don't have to know the song, just jump in on the chorus."

At that point, Mercedes, Santana, Finn, Sam and Tina joined Kurt onstage, and Rachel and the rest at least circled the stage, fearing it would probably not hold the weight of the entire team.

 _ **(Seabird-Don't you know you're beautiful)**_

[ **Cooper** , _Kurt, **Both**_ ]

Cooper picked up the keyboard part, while Kurt led everyone in clapping their hands while they did the intro together.

 **Don't you remember**

 **You were happy when you were younger**

 **Things were so simple, yeah**

 **'Til the day he walked out on your mother**.

 _But now you blame yourself because you're by yourself_

 _And you feel like it's not gonna change_

 _You're crying on the floor 'cause you can take no more_

 _Looking for a way to escape_

 **And all this time saying you were fine** ( _Ahhhhh_ )

 **And everyone's to blame**

 **Well there you are, you and your broken heart**

 **It's written all over your face**

 _ **Don't you know, don't you know that you're beautiful? Yeah**_

 _ **Don't you know, don't you know that you're beautiful?**_

Blaine was determined not to choke up, but the plastered on smile was starting to tremble at the edges, the deep ache in his chest pulling it down from the inside. He found himself folding his hands in his lap as the rest of his body started to curl inward.

 _I see you laughing_

 _But I know inside that you're crying_

 _Just tell me what happened when things went wrong_

 _We'll try to make sense of it all_

 **Please don't blame yourself 'cause you're not by yourself**

 **I've been right here all along**

 **Don't have to be alone because you've always known**

 **Wherever your heart is my home**

 _And all this time saying you were fine_

 _And everyone's to blame_

 **Well there you are, you and your broken heart**

 **It's written all over your face**

 _ **Don't you know, don't you know that you're beautiful? Yeah**_

 _ **Don't you know, don't you know that you're beautiful?**_

The entire rest of the choir tightened their circle around the stool. They joined in with ahhs before the final chorus as they all took turns either patting Blaine on the back or giving him a quick hug.

 **Can't you see what you mean to me**?

 _Can't you see what you mean to me?_

Blaine didn't realize how much he needed those hugs until Cooper and Kurt pulled him in hard enough to lift him off the stool, and he thought he might forget to breathe.

By the end of the night, pretty much everyone had been sung to and/or group hugged to the point of passing out all over the Hudmel's basement in various states of cling/sprawl like they'd somehow regressed from graduating to holding on to sixteen as long as they could.

Kurt went home with Blaine.

They held on all night.

-TBC


	7. Where Spiders Lay Eggs

**AN:** I grew up with four channels on the television, and in the afternoon, three played soap operas and the other played Sesame Street. So, I gained an appreciation for serial stories at a very young age. If you've ever watched a soap opera, you know the most important day to watch is Friday. Everything important happens on Friday. Monday resolves the cliffhanger, and the rest of the week deals with the consequences and sets up the next Friday. This chapter is a Friday episode.

 **AN:** I've been posting on Wednesdays, but I have to ride my horse and sleep tomorrow. You get this a day early. You're welcome.

 **Warnings:** As a writer, I spend so much time writing and re-writing that I become de-sensitized to my own words, so I can't judge how these words may affect you. That being said, I know I intended them to be intense. There are a lot of song lyrics in here which are a direct window into Blaine's state of mind. If you have a mental illness, or if you love someone with a mental illness, this chapter may upset you. Or not.

Blaine had lost track of how many files he'd uploaded to Dropbox by the time he figured it was probably late enough in the day that Kurt might actually be allowed to listen to them. He did know they didn't amount to even half of what he'd been playing since he sat down at the keyboard that morning, just the ones he wanted Kurt to hear, the lyrics that spoke to him, melodies he couldn't stop playing. His fingers throbbed with a dull ache from pounding a little too hard at plastic keys that felt too flimsy for the songs he used them to play.

He would probably have been stopped by now, his mom or Cooper knocking to suggest (politely, because God forbid, they should upset him) he keep it down, except he had the keyboard wired into his laptop and could only hear it through his headphones. Well, that and, Cooper had flown to L.A. for a spur of the moment audition his agent had gotten him, and Mom had popped her head in the door a couple of hours ago already to tell him she'd be working late. Of course she was. She was practically a single parent, after all, though he knew the household bank account probably got regular boosts the same way his own checking account did. Why should she take a day off?

She wasn't even on Facebook, anyway, so she probably didn't remember what today was.

And Blaine couldn't forget.

He hadn't been able to forget since the notification popped up on his phone, in the middle of the night, like Facebook somehow knew he'd been on his medication for a little over five days and had gotten to the insomnia stage of stabilizing. He'd hoped maybe there'd be no side effects this time, that maybe his body just remembered how it worked and wouldn't put up such a fight this time around. But no, first there were the headaches and now, there he was not sleeping when Facebook decided to give his mind something to worry over until sleep wasn't even an option.

At least there had been no panic attacks to speak of. Cooper was convinced they'd dodged that bullet and stopped hovering after about day three. Cooper was the self-appointed expert on how Blaine's brain worked, based, you know, on the one previous experience. But here, again, was the insomnia, and if he'd been just about to the point of being tired enough to drift off for a few minutes, running his last phone call with Kurt over and over in his head like a lullaby, the spell had been broken by the ding of his phone and the gnawing curiosity that made him check to see what it was.

 **Today is Thomas Anderson's birthday. Post to wish him a happy birthday.**

Huh. The hairs at the back of Blaine's neck bristled, static electricity zinging out the crown of his head, and he checked the date twice to be sure it wasn't a mistake before clicking on the link to go to his father's wall. There'd been a time he would've relished the chance to be the first one to post, but he didn't this time, not even a "FIRST!" That was one more word than he had at the moment. Instead, he just scrolled down the wall to find it hadn't been updated since before last year's birthday, all the old posts from people whose names Blaine barely even recognized still visible at the top.

Down from that-pictures of the '59 Chevy they'd rebuilt together, taken right after they'd finished, and not even updated with the ones they'd taken to sell it less than a year later. Mom took those pictures, since Dad wasn't even around at the time.

He'd meant for Blaine to drive the car but hadn't even called his son the day he turned sixteen or when he got his license, the last semester of his second freshman year. Mom made the decision to drive only hybrid cars and sold it, a decision based less on its propensity to guzzle gas and more on her concern for the air quality in their garage. Blaine hadn't really been able to blame her.

It only had an AM radio, anyway.

So, no, Blaine didn't post any birthday wishes on Thomas Anderson's Facebook page. He didn't fall asleep, either. Instead, he locked himself in his room and played Good Charlotte's "Emotionless" on repeat for three hours on his guitar.

When the strings started to peel the prints off his fingers, he decided that if he was going to be wallowing in music all day, he might as well record some, and switched to his keyboard.

He opened his laptop, and the wallpaper of he and Kurt at Renaissance Faire last fall popped up, the two of them suspiciously eyeing a display of souvenir magic wands, their cheeks red and eyes puffy from laughing. For a second, he caught his breath and the throbbing in his fingers slowed. Kurt had that effect on him.

Kurt.

Which reminded him of a song he'd been meaning to share for a while. It took him less than half an hour to record a verse of "Ascendio" by Ministry of Magic and upload it to their Dropbox account. Kurt would get the notification and listen to it when he had the chance. In the meantime, Blaine had just thought of another song Kurt absolutely had to hear.

And so it started.

-#-

"Is that your phone again?" Burt huffed. Between the GPS constantly reminding them that they'd gotten hopelessly lost, and Kurt's phone pinging a couple times an hour, the Burt and Kurt road trip to New York City had involved decidedly less father-son bond forming conversation than Kurt had anticipated. Not that he was too disappointed. Given their recent trends toward awkward discussions about Kurt's boyfriend in which Burt was obviously trying to suss out whether they were having sex or not, Kurt would prefer PG-13 text conversations with said boyfriend about the when, where, and how of the sex they were definitely having.

"Yeah, sorry," Kurt apologized.

"We agreed, no phone calls or texts until we get back to the hotel," Burt reminded him.

"I know, Dad," Kurt grinned. "Blaine knows, too." While it was maybe asking a bit much to swear off his phone on the nine plus hour drive between New York and Lima, there had been more than enough for them to talk about once they actually got into the city to take the edge off the separation anxiety just a little. Four days into their trip, it was almost old hat. Not that he didn't still miss Blaine like crazy.

"Besides, isn't Blaine in L.A. with Cooper?"

"No. They decided to hang in Lima for the week, 'given the givens.'"

"Given what givens?" Burt asked. "Just because you already had plans?"

"I don't know. That was the exact reason he gave me, and then he... distracted me before I could get clarification." Kurt could feel the blood cresting the tips of his ears and cheekbones and pretended to scratch the back of his head while cupping a hand to cover the blush, sure that his dad would take one look at him and realize that Blaine's preferred mode of distraction was sex. Okay, it was Kurt's preferred method as well.

"Huh," Burt responded, an obvious preamble to some speculation, or press for Kurt to speculate, on why the Anderson brothers had called off their trip, but the GPS interrupted with a command to turn right ahead when they were, of course, in the far left lane and blocked by traffic. His speculation turned into more of an expletive-laden mumble about what a stupid idea it was to drive themselves around New York rather than taking a cab like every other self-respecting tourist.

So, Kurt was off the hook for having to say he thought Cooper and Blaine had called off their trip because Blaine was still adjusting to his meds. He wasn't sure how much his dad knew about everything that was going on with Blaine right then or if it was his place to say anything. He suspected that at least some of it had come up during his and Cooper's marathon discussion in the garage the day of the graduation party, though. There was no other reason for Cooper to have been so intent on meeting Burt Hummel except to get fatherly advice, now that Cooper's actual father seemed to have deferred his duties.

While his dad argued with the GPS, Kurt glanced at the phone in question, to find not a text message but a notification from his and Blaine's shared Dropbox account. They used it to share music when they were working on a collaboration or had just discovered something that reminded one of the other. Sure, they could've just texted YouTube links like everyone else, but that lacked the intimacy of being able to record and share bytes of their own voices singing to each other like blown kisses.

And there was something about not knowing where the other boy might be when he finally had the chance to log in and playback the message that made it a little like a Christmas present just waiting in the ether to be opened. Of course Blaine had found a way to both dodge the daytime texting ban and make Kurt quiver with anticipation at the same time.

It was a voice file, the title not one with which he was familiar, "Ascendio" by Ministry of Magic. His anticipation quickly turned to confusion when he saw the note attached to the notification. "Harry Potter music, FTW!"

While Blaine's enthusiasm for Harry Potter was no secret, Kurt's relative indifference to it was equally well known. Their trip to the Renaissance Faire had literally been made when Kurt picked up one of the many iterations of a magic wand souvenir, available for purchase at literally every vendor on the lot, and dubbed it, 'Ye Old Anal Probe,' since it was obviously a medieval sex toy of some sort.

By the end of the day, their eyes were swollen from laughing until they cried every time they rounded a corner to find some other variety of wand-glow in the dark, LED lit, carved to look like a flying dragon, glittered, battery powered, and extra long-that set them off all over again. And that was literally the most appreciation Kurt had ever had for Harry Potter, being that there was no music in the movies... So, yeah, Harry Potter music from Blaine totally made sense. He'd definitely give that a listen after they checked out two more apartments on their list and took a break for lunch.

When he got not one but two more notifications during the tour of the Bushwick loft (which was saying a lot considering the entire tour was basically, a twirl around and a 'there's the bathroom') Burt wasn't impressed, but he nodded approval when Kurt didn't immediately take out his phone to check it. After four days, he seemed willing to cut a little slack where Blaine was concerned. Kurt supposed it was inevitable that he brought it up at lunch, though.

"So, all those messages you've been getting? They all from Blaine?"

"Sort of," Kurt hedged, not sure how much of an offense his dad would take.

"Sort of?" Burt mused with a smirk, "What, are they laundering text messages through offshore accounts, now?"

Kurt flushed at just how close to the truth his dad managed to hit. "Um, they're email notifications from Dropbox telling me that a file has been uploaded to my account."

"And who, pray tell, is uploading files to your account while you're riding around in a car with me all day?"

Kurt meant to huff with something akin to righteous indignation the way he would if he was seconds away from getting grounded, but halfway between conception and execution it turned into something of a dreamy, pining sigh.

"Blaine," he conceded. "He's apparently having a music discovery day or something, and every time one of us hears something we want to share with the other one, we sing a snip-it of it and upload it for the other one to listen to when they're not available to call."

"Sounds like he's been at it all day. Must miss you." Burt chased the statement down with a sip of his iced tea so Kurt couldn't fully read his expression, but the single raised eyebrow implied he wasn't just talking about Blaine.

Kurt dropped his gaze to the cutlery, still wrapped in its napkin sheath even though the food had arrived several minutes ago, his fingers fiddling instead with the few tortilla chips still crumbled in the basket. He could feel his father's gaze studying him, hear the deliberate chewing he saved for dinners when he was listening to Kurt and Finn bicker over the table, waiting for them to give away something he could use to figure out what was really going on beneath all the bluster.

"Y'know, Cooper filled me in on everything that's going on with Blaine." A couple more chews and a visible swallow. "It's okay if you're worried about him. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little worried myself."

Kurt couldn't help a sad laugh at how easily his dad looked right through him, a little relieved that he didn't have to keep pretending he wasn't so distracted he'd ordered his smothered burrito with the traditional refried beans instead of asking for the whole beans and swapping the sour cream for guacamole.

"It's just weird," he confessed, "driving around, looking at apartments, planning a whole new life, and one minute I'm so excited about it, I can't believe it's really happening. Then I realize the one person I want to grab by the shoulders and jump up and down with while squealing like a little girl is not here. Then I think about how he's doing the same thing, in a way, trying to live this whole new life, but he didn't get to choose it, and there's not so much squealing as self-deprecation and wallowing. It just got dumped on him, all at once..."

"And you feel guilty," his dad finished. He pushed his plate away, even as Kurt's barely unwrapped fork toyed with the refried beans he had no intention of eating. "Look, Kurt, as much as it kills me to admit it, I like Blaine. I like him a lot, and it kills me that he's having a rough time right now." He slid over in the booth enough to face Kurt. "I promise you, like I promised Cooper, that as much as I can, I'm going to look out for Blaine, but you can't let this throw a shadow over what you're trying to do with your own life. You owe it to him to be your amazing self, and take this city by storm, exactly the way he's going to once he gets his head above water again."

"I know. And you're right. You're right! Of course you are." He dropped his fork onto the plate with a dissatisfying smoosh into the sour cream. "I just feel like I'm not doing enough to help him. Like I don't even know how."

"Did you try asking Blaine?"

"He never really asks for help," Kurt frowned. "I think he likes being the guy who helps everyone else."

"So maybe you show him that he helps everyone else by helping himself first."

"You say that like I can just wave a magic wand and make him believe me." He pushed his own plate away as well and threw his napkin over it.

"Which is why I said to show him, not tell him." Burt leaned over, fished Kurt's phone out from where Kurt had it half hidden under the dessert menu card. "Start by listening to whatever it was he thought was important enough to skirt around my phone silence policy. And then, let's go put a deposit on that place in Bushwick, pack up, and head back home. I can't keep getting angry with my GPS for steering us the wrong way on a one way street when my co-pilot's not even in the same state."

"Really?" Kurt knew he sounded entirely too excited. "I don't want to ruin your trip."

"Nah. We did what we came to do. We saw some sights..."

"From the hotel room..."

"Took in a show..."

"Pay-per-view..."

"And found you an apartment that you can make over into whatever you want it to be. So, I'd say, mission accomplished."

Kurt lunged, wrapping his arms around his father's neck. "Dad, thank you!"

-#-

Between signing the papers on the place in Bushwick and fighting the sketchy phone signal, Kurt wasn't actually able to open any of the Dropbox files until they were on the road back to Lima. By then, he had lost track of the number of notification pings he'd received.

( _ **Ministry of Magic, Ascendio**_ )

 _I'll be a wizard, I'll be a hero_

 _More than just a boy, wanting more than just a home_

 _I'll witness wonders, never ceasing_

 _So much more than I could imagine with my mind_

Kurt frowned. Listening to Blaine's first musical file for the fifth time in a row only left him more conflicted. He didn't know what exactly he'd been expecting Harry Potter inspired music to say to him, or what Blaine was trying to say, but if he was trying to convince Kurt to join the fan club, he'd mis stepped.

 _I'll have a family, someone that loves me_

 _Mother, father, son, just like everyone_

 _I'm not a burden, not good for nothing_

 _I am The Boy Who Lived, the one to save the world_

The vocals were flawless, as always, and he marveled at how Blaine managed to make it sound like a professional recording when Kurt's music messages were usually just Kurt's voice recorded on his phone. Blaine never did anything half way, including the way he poured himself into every lyric.

It occurred to Kurt that he hadn't heard Blaine do a sweet, poppy Katy Perry song in ages.

Even this, what was supposed to be inspired by a kid's book, seemed a step darker than Blaine's normal faire. Between what could be interpreted as an allusion to their discussion that day on the piano bench, where Kurt had told Blaine he didn't have to be superman, and the pining for a family, the song had undertones that felt vaguely like an ice cube dropped down the back of his shirt.

"What's with the face?" Burt asked, glancing over from the driver's seat. "You're usually grinning like the cat that ate the canary when you get something from Blaine."

Kurt shrugged off the shiver before it could climb the entire length of his spine. "N-nothing," he dismissed, "I'm sure I'm just overthinking." Sure he was. How many songs inspired by Harry Potter could there be to choose from, anyway?

Seeming to accept that answer, Burt nodded, fingers of his right hand drumming to the Mellencamp playing through the car speakers.

Maybe he was reading too much into things. He clicked back to his notifications and pulled up the next file Blaine had sent.

( _ **Jason Mraz, Life Is Wonderful**_ )

 _And it takes no time to fall in love_

 _But it takes you years to know what love is_

 _It takes some fears to make you trust_

 _It takes those tears to make it rust_

 _It takes the dust to have it polished-yeah_

 _Ha la la la la la la life is wonderful_

 _Ah la la la la la la life goes full circle_

 _Ah la la la la la la life is so full of_

 _Ah la la la la la la life is so rough_

 _Ah la la la la la la life is wonderful_

 _Ah la la la la la la life goes full circle_

 _Ah la la la la la la life is our love_

Okay, that was more like it. Maybe not as top 40 as Kurt was used to, but upbeat and definitely catchy.

Possibly a little... twitchy.

But then again, Kurt had been cooped up in a car so much in the last week, everything made him a little twitchy.

"I like that one," Burt shrugged, probably reacting to the undecided expression Kurt was most likely sporting at the moment. "Catchy."

"Sorry," Kurt said, "I didn't realize my earbuds came unplugged." He moved to plug back into the jack, always a challenge with the way his phone case fit around the holes.

"No. You don't have to do that," Burt protested. "I mean, unless you think he's going to send you something racy. I kinda like listening to him sing."

"Well, okay, then," Kurt mused, eyebrows peaked. "Let's see what else he sent us. If my inbox is anything to go by, he's been at it for hours."

He didn't recognize the next artist but shrugged as he clicked on the file.

 _ **(Plumb, Damaged)**_

 _Healing comes so painfully  
And it chills to the bone  
Will anyone get close to me?  
I'm damaged, as I'm sure you know_

 _I'm scared and I'm alone  
I'm ashamed  
And I need for you to know_

 _I didn't say all the things that I wanted to say  
And you can't take back what you've taken away  
'Cause I feel you, I feel you near me_

Kurt was chewing his way through a thumbnail on the third listen through, blinking back some emotion he couldn't quite pin down, when he felt his dad's hand give his knee a nudge.

"Why don't you try calling him." Kurt couldn't miss the slight quaver in his father's voice that matched the tremble in his own fingertips.

"Yeah. Yeah." He stilled his fingers and cleared his throat before hitting speed dial, massaged at a furrow growing across his forehead when it rang through to voicemail. "Blaine. I'm listening to your songs, but I'd much rather be listening to you live. We're in the car now, about two hours into the drive back to Lima, and the phone ban is officially lifted, so call me back as soon as you get this. Please? Love you. Bye."

He ticked off a text with the same basic sentiment and sent it into the ether as well.

"If he's wrapped up in recording, he probably doesn't hear his phone," Kurt rationalized. "He's been at it all day, by the looks of it. He's bound to take a break soon."

"Yeah, I'm sure he will," Burt agreed, squeezing Kurt's shoulder across the console of the car as Kurt brought up a file Blaine had uploaded just before lunch.

( _ **Cyndi Lauper, Fearless**_ )

 _Sometimes I'm afraid of the dark_  
 _I can't find the light in my heart_  
 _I can see my hand pushing away_  
 _Hard as I can_

 _But if I was fearless..._  
 _Could I be your wreckless friend_  
 _And if I was helpless..._  
 _Could be the one comes rushing in._

 _Sometimes I'm afraid when you go..._

"He's not there by himself, is he?" Burt had an elbow on the console, his whole body leaning against it, one hand on the top of the steering wheel.

"I don't know," Kurt answered. He almost lost his grip on the phone as the slick of sweat spread across his palms. "Cooper won't be back until tomorrow, if he comes back at all. His mom's back, but she's probably working."

"And he still hasn't answered your text?"

Kurt shook his head, throat working fiercely around just the word 'no' to the point it wouldn't come out at all. His knee had started to bounce up and down, already having whacked into the bottom of the dashboard enough times to feel bruised beneath his pant leg.

His dad scrunched his baseball cap up in his fist and used it to scrub over his face once before cramming it back down over his head.

"Text him again, and try calling his mom. I don't think I like this head space he's in. Not if he's been at this for hours."

Kurt might have imagined it, but he thought the car lurched forward, the cruise control overridden. Upon getting no answer on the house line, he tried Mrs. Anderson's cell, left a voicemail there and on her business phone, as well, knowing that she spent a lot of time in meetings and in the car and wouldn't answer in either situation but would respond as soon as she could.

"No answer at the house, at all," Kurt huffed. He slammed his head back against the head rest in frustration. "He has to be there. All of his recording equipment is there, and the last notification I got says he uploaded again half an hour ago."

"I'm sure he's fine," his dad soothed, even though his body language pretty much mirrored Kurt's, and Kurt was beginning to have serious doubts about the relative fineness of any of them.

"I'm not."

 _(_ _ **Sia, Breathe Me)**_

 _Ouch, I have lost myself again_  
 _Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found_  
 _Yeah, I think that I might break_  
 _Lost myself again and I feel unsafe_

 _Be my friend, hold me_  
 _Wrap me up, unfold me_  
 _I am small, I'm needy_  
 _Warm me up and breathe me_

The tremble in Kurt's fingers had long since encompassed his whole hand as he began to click through the files in succession barely listening to one, bracing for the kick in the gut he got from each, then playing the next.

( _ **Red,**_ _**Pieces**_ )

 _I tried so hard! So hard!_  
I tried so hard _!_

 _Then I'll see your face_  
 _I know I'm finally yours_  
 _I find everything I thought I lost before_  
 _You call my name_  
 _I come to you in pieces_  
 _So you can make me whole_  
 _So you can make me whole_

-#-

Blaine laid down track after track, one flowing into the next as he just went where his mind wandered, and if at some point his intended audience shifted along with the tone of the verses he chose and the words got bitten off by the tension in his jaw that seemed to twang some invisible guitar string stretched between the insides of his skull, then he didn't notice. Or he didn't care.

Or he cared too much.

Somewhere, sometime during the course of the day, he got a little lost, couldn't find the time or the need to eat, to drink, or check his phone, but he found the words he hadn't had in the dark hours of the night when he first began searching. He also found that posting an original recording of a song sometimes allowed you to get around Facebook's music blocking software. And when that didn't work, posting a link to a public Dropbox file sometimes did. Either way, it was possible his dad got an earful. Unlikely, but possible.

"Happy birthday."

Someone had to hear.

-#-

By the time he noticed the tone of Blaine's song choices was changing, and not for the better, they'd been driving into the sun for over four hours, the summer twilight seeming to last forever, and Kurt's eyes had begun to water.

From squinting.

He had no plausible excuse for why his sinuses were draining down the back of his throat, but he definitely wasn't ready to cry.

Definitely.

Not yet.

( _ **Stone Sour, Bother**_ )

 _Wish I was too dead to care_  
 _If indeed I cared at all_  
 _Never had a voice to protest_  
 _So you fed me sh** to digest_  
 _I wish I had a reason, my flaws are open season_  
 _For this, I gave up trying_  
 _One good turn deserves my dying_

 _You don't need to bother, I don't need to be_  
 _I'll keep slipping farther_  
 _But once I hold on, I won't let go til it bleeds_

Kurt thought he might throw up. White-knuckled fingers clutched around the arm rest, he was one hard swallow away from telling his dad to pull over, when his phone vibrated in his hand.

"Hello?!" He answered without checking to see who was calling, hoping for Blaine, but willing to accept any one of the return calls for which he'd been waiting.

"Kurt! Tell me Blaine's with you."

"Cooper?" Kurt palmed his forehead, fingertips threading into the already mussed front of his coiffed hair where strands had long since succumbed to the abuse and started to wilt downward into his eyebrows, tickling like spider webs. "No. No, he's not. My dad and I are in the car on our way back to Lima, but we're still a couple hours out."

"What? You drove? Crap!" Kurt imagined Cooper's hair receiving the same treatment as his own from the sound of a palm scraping over five o'clock shadow and envied Cooper the freedom to pace the floor, which would explain the metronome-like clacking over hardwood and the slightly elevated respiration rate puffing into the phone. "Look, I called home, and no one answers, but Blaine's posted some really... disturbing stuff on our dad's Facebook page."

"Wait, your dad has a Facebook page?"

"Not one that he checks. He set it up when he was still living at home, because everyone was doing it at the time. Probably doesn't have ten posts on it. But... crap! Kurt, if I had remembered I never would have come back to LA."

"Remembered what?"

A beep sounded to indicate another call coming through, "Wait a second, Coop. That might be him, now."

Kurt swiped over to the other call. "Blaine?"

"No, honey. It's Pamela."

"Mrs. Anderson! Thank God. Are you home? Is Blaine okay?"

"I'm actually still at a consult over in Columbus. I'm heading home shortly, though. Why wouldn't Blaine be okay? Have you talked to him?"

"No, Mrs. Anderson, we haven't talked to him, that's why we're so worried. He's been uploading music all day that makes us question his state of mind, and Cooper says he's making posts on your husband's Facebook page. Do you have any idea why he'd be doing that?"

"On Tommy's page? I don't know. I don't have a Facebook anymore. I couldn't stand all those notifications in my inbox. How can so many people have birthdays on the same...? Oh no."

"Mrs. Anderson?"

"Today is my husband's birthday." A very pregnant pause. "I'm sure Blaine got a notification." Another beat. "He's all alone. Kurt, he can't be alone. Not today. I can't believe I forgot. Oh God!"

"Calm down. Okay. We're on our way there now. If you get in your car, we'll probably get there about the same time. In the meantime, I'm going to send out a mass text to all our friends. I'm sure someone will go and check on him."

"Good. Right. Okay, thank you, Kurt. I'll do the same. Maybe the neighbors are home."

The call disconnected without either one saying goodbye, and he must've accidentally dropped Cooper, as well, because when he clicked back over, the line was dead. Kurt dialed Blaine's number one more time, refrained from tossing the phone out the window when it went straight to voicemail without ringing this time.

"He's either got his phone off, or it's dead. He probably didn't charge it overnight. He says you have to let it almost die before recharging or it shortens your battery life. He's always giving me crap for overcharging." His laugh was mirthless, more of a hiccup, knowing if Blaine would answer right now just to start that argument again for the dozenth time, Kurt would be so happy he'd let him win.

"Are you still getting notifications?" Burt asked.

Kurt checked his inbox, frowned. "The last one was over an hour ago."

"Carole's working, but Finn's got to be home by now. Call him before he heads over to Rachel's. Or Schuester. He lives on that side of town, right? If you can't get them, then go ahead and send that text out to everyone you can think of. We're still almost two hours out..." Burt slammed the flat of his hand against the steering wheel as the car engine revved a few hundred rpms higher.

-#-

( _ **Good Charlotte, Emotionless**_ )

 _It's been a long hard road without you by my side_  
 _Why weren't you there all the nights that we cried_  
 _You broke my mother's heart_  
 _You broke your children for life_  
 _It's not okay,_  
 _But we're alright_  
 _I remember the days, you were a hero in my eyes_  
 _But those were just a long lost memory of mine_  
 _I spent so many years learning how to survive_  
 _Now, I'm writing just to let you know that I'm still alive_

 _Yeah, I'm still alive_

Blaine felt it. Alive. It felt real in a way it hadn't for days and days, maybe weeks. Maybe more. And maybe what he was really feeling was alone, forgotten and pissed off, but did it really matter where the thrum came from? Did it matter if the voice he was playing off, pinging back at him through the reverb speaker wasn't singing the same song? He'd always been a master of tough harmonies and mash-ups.

Even the pins and needles ache in his fingers, the bone weary creaking in his wrists made him feel awake, alive, crackling, zinging... anxious.

If at some point he realized he should stop, take a breather, get himself together, there was no conscious decision to keep going. He just didn't know how to stop. And maybe he didn't want to. Maybe it was nice, for once, to feel like even if he was fractured in a million pieces, there was light shining out between the shards, an imminent rebirth into something bigger, better, and more amazing, instead of an impending collapse and doom. He hadn't felt that in... forever.

So, if he originally wrapped his fingers because they were tired and starting to swell, and if he had to dig into the bottom of his gym bag to get the tape, then what could it hurt to throw on a tank and some sweats, too? He was entirely too stiff after sitting at the keyboard all day and needed to loosen up. Besides, the thrum was only getting louder, and if he hit the keys any harder, they were going to break.

But Blaine wasn't. He wasn't going to break.

Not without putting up a fight.

-#-

( _ **Fightstar, You and I**_ )

 _I can't carry on for long_  
 _I'll start to feel the pain again_  
 _Now the days all look the same_  
 _Losing sight and hold of home_

 _You and I_  
 _Will never make it out of here_  
 _Alive_

Oh, they just got better and better. Kurt shut his eyes, a parade of lyrics from songs he'd never heard and now couldn't forget playing across the blank screen of his mind as he tried to make sense of what Finn was saying on the other end of the line.

"Finn, stop! No. You can't just break in." Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead reached across the console for his dad's hand while he dropped his chin to his chest, focusing his voice into the phone like it would make him jump the distance between them and be there in the flesh.

"Is Blaine's car in the driveway? It is? Then he's there. If he's not answering, then get the spare key. There's a gap between the landscaping timbers next to the bottom step. If that's gone, there's one in the back under the…" An exasperated huff. "We don't _have_ scorpions in Ohio, Finn. Centipedes, yes, but..." Kurt shut his eyes. "God, why isn't he answering?"

"Wait is that? Mr. Schuester? He's there, too? Good. Okay, you remember where Blaine's room is, right? Top of the stairs on the left." A pause while he waited. "He's not there? What do you mean he's not there? Find him!"

 _-#-_

 _Wish I was too dead to cry_  
 _My self-affliction fades_  
 _Stones to throw at my creator_  
 _Masochists to which I cater_

Blaine found himself singing along to the traces of songs still swirling around in his head, the verses from one blending into the chorus of another, the bridge just the rhythmic ricochet of the speed bag as he buffeted it with his taped fists. He'd never been one to spend much time on the speed bag. To be honest, most gyms hung them too high for him to get a decent swing at them, and he never quite got a good rhythm going. The one in his basement was just right, though, and he wasn't allowed to hit the heavy bag.

Maybe no one cared enough to be here to stop him, but he said he wouldn't. So, he didn't.

He never said anything about the speed ball. Potato, potahto. It had to be safer, anyway, right? The ball did most of the work. He didn't even have to move his feet if he didn't want to. All he needed to do was find the right power and the right rhythm, and get lost in it. Lose himself, the way his dad lost him.

And breathe.

 _Please just let us go insane_  
 _We're travelling where spiders lay eggs_  
 _With our heads above the waves_  
 _The water broke our fall_

It surprised him how hard he could hit the ball, how his brain still managed to count the reverberations before he hit it again. It surprised him even more how hard he wanted to hit it. That little niggling part of his brain that always wanted to one up himself kept pushing him to try for one more back and forth, thunk-a-thunk-thunk between each swing.

When he didn't get it, the niggling had a voice that pointed out his failure. He recognized it too well. And it wasn't his own.

 _It's been a long hard road without you by my side_  
 _Why weren't you there all the nights that we cried_  
 _You broke my mother's heart_  
 _You broke your children for life_  
 _It's not okay,_  
 _But we're all right_

Breathe. So, he hit it harder. Breathe. And again. Breathe. Until all he could hear was a deep fryer sizzle super imposed over the memory of a voice he hadn't heard in person for months.

Harder and again.

Maybe he forgot to breathe once or twice.

Maybe he just couldn't.

Breathe.

 _Wish I'd died instead of lived_  
 _A zombie hides my face_  
 _Shell forgotten with its memories_  
 _Diaries left with cryptic entries_

 _And you don't need to bother, I don't need to be_

Sweat in his eyes, a grind between his teeth, a quiver started in his exhausted arms and tremored down to his knees. Knuckles split, blood smeared and splattered, his tired fists went lax even as his arms still swung, committed to a rhythm he could no longer hear, a breath he could no longer breathe.

 _I'll keep slipping farther_  
 _But once I hold on, I won't let go til it bleeds_

"Blaine! Blaine! Hey, stop!"

 _It feels as black as the thoughts I had_  
 _When the road was as dark as my fears_  
 _And just take comfort in knowing that_  
 _All of this ends when I am done_

When the tremor became an entire body quake, arms caught him from behind and lowered him to the ground before he could fall.

Will Schuester's face swimming into focus above him made him wonder whether there was just sweat in his eyes or his eyes were sweating of their own accord.

He wasn't crying. He didn't do that.

Not anymore.

His body felt encased in Jell-O, like he was a specimen trapped in the agar on some mad scientist's petri dish, movement sluggish and nearly impossible. Nothing sounded right either, muted and garbled, at once underwater and lost in the breaking of waves.

Waves... tremors, shakes, spasms, quakes, all of the above in his body and his mind while his ability to focus and quiet any of it greyed out in single pixel increments, collapsing the space around him. Collapsing his chest, his lungs, his throat, while his eyes flew open wide, desperate, the horizon curved around the gravity of the moment.

Someone's hands patted his face, pressed into the pulse point at his neck. Mr. Schuester.

His back arched, scapulae pointed downward, the damp cold of the concrete impaled him.

Someone else at his side, one hand in his, holding tight. Finn. Finn's eyes wide as he shouted into his phone, words Blaine couldn't hear.

 _You and I_  
 _Will never make it out of here_  
 _Alive_

Then black.

-#-

"What? No! No, his lips should not be blue. Is he breathing? Well, check! Finn, put me on speaker so I can talk to Mr. Schue."

Burt was already looking for a safe place to pull off the highway. Traffic had been light since the sun finally went down, but they were going to wreck if he didn't get them off the road and right now. Multi-tasking was a skill for menial tasks, and right then he needed to be a dad more than he needed to be driving the goddamned car.

"You, too, Kurt."

"What?" The kid was breaking Burt's heart with his face so stoic, even while his hands were shaking. Big wells of tears pooled in his bottom eyelids and reflected the headlights of oncoming traffic before spilling over without a blink or a whimper. How he managed to keep his voice so steady, his face expressionless while he was so obviously coming unglued was testament to years of practice Burt wished he didn't have.

"Put it on speaker," Burt explained, finally finding a spot on the side of the road where the shoulder was wide enough to pull off, and instinctively bracing a hand across Kurt's chest as they veered over.

"Oh. Right. Sure."

As soon as Kurt complied, Finn's voice came out of the speaker, sounding distant as if not directed into his own phone. "Dude, I've never seen anyone's lips that color. He's still breathing, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Will Schuester answered, farther away still, "He's trying to, anyway. And he has a pulse, but it feels strange, like it's there and then it's not. I don't think I'm doing this right."

"Has anyone called 911?" Burt refrained from shouting, even though his nerves were starting to get the best of him, too.

"An ambulance is five minutes out," Will answered. "I've got dispatch on my cell." His voice got quieter, probably directed to the dispatcher when he said, "No. He's not conscious. He was hitting one of those, those ball things that boxers hit... I don't know... but he was shaking all over... God, his knuckles are trashed. I have no idea how long he was doing that, but as soon as I came up behind him, he just collapsed."

"He has a heart condition," Kurt offered. Clenching his eyes shut might've helped to keep his voice and thoughts under control, but it broke the dam holding back the flood of tears that rolled down his cheeks. His next breath was audibly shaky, but his voice was still clear when he continued. "He's not supposed to be boxing. He's not supposed to do any strenuous exercise."

"Kurt, the dispatcher wants to know if you know what condition Blaine has?"

"ARVC," Kurt answered. "He's taking Atenolol, and he just started an anti-depressant, but I don't know which..." This time a sob constricted the words. "I should know. He just started them, though, and I've been so busy. I should know!"

"Hey, hey, kiddo," Burt interrupted. "None of that." He took his son by the elbow with one hand and patted his knee with the other, forcing him to open his eyes and focus on what he was saying. "This is not your fault, and beating yourself up isn't going to get Blaine the help he needs any faster."

Kurt just nodded, and quickly swiped at the tear tracks down the sides of his face.

"I think I hear the ambulance," Finn chimed in. A rustling sound punctuated by what sounded like footsteps pounding up a wooden staircase, followed by a door squeaking on its hinges. "Dudes! Down here! He's in the basement!"

The sound of more footsteps and then the stairs again. "His name's Blaine, and he's almost eighteen, I think. He's been like this for, I don't know, five minutes or so."

"Dispatch says he has a diagnosed arrhythmia?" One of the paramedics came over loud and clear, and Burt could almost imagine Finn hovering ridiculously close in that clumsy way he always managed to cram his hulking frame into a situation like everything was a football huddle and personal space was a foreign concept.

"Yeah. Yes," Schue answered. "Do you think that's what this is?"

"We'll know in a minute," a second paramedic's voice, slightly farther away. "Attaching the portable EKG now... power on... monitoring..."

"Patient is exhibiting signs of cyanosis, respirations rapid and shallow, responsive to pain stimuli but not conscious."

"He's in VTach. Shockable rhythm. We're going to have to stabilize before we can load for transport. Charging…And clear!"

The rest of the call ran together into just so much gibberish as Burt shoved the center console up and dragged his son against his chest while he shook. "He's going to be fine," he whispered. "Blaine's a strong kid. He's going to be fine." Kurt only trembled harder as the phone call played out like a scene from a thousand television medical dramas, the entertainment value lost in panic and desperation. "C'mon, kiddo. You gotta have a little faith, okay? You gotta believe in Blaine."

And just like that, "We got a normal rhythm. Let's load up!"

"Kurt, bro. Did you hear that?" Finn's voice had a breathless quality it hadn't had moments before. "He's okay. Blaine's okay. They're taking him to the hospital right now. Mom's on shift tonight. You know she'll keep an eye on him 'til you get here."

"Thanks, Finn. Schuester, you too," Burt said. "We're just," a deep breath and wipe of sweaty palms over jean clad thighs, "going to get ourselves together here, and head out. We'll be there in about an hour and a half. We can't thank you guys enough."

"Anytime," Mr. Schuester supplied. "Just drive safe. We'll follow the ambulance and keep you posted."

The phone call cut out as Kurt straightened in his seat, taking a deep, sniffling breath. He blinked until the wells under his eyes dried up, except for what clung in his eyelashes. Swallowing, he fixed his gaze straight ahead, as if the miles between them could be diminished by force of will alone. And in case Kurt's will wasn't quite strong enough on its own, Burt held his hand and loaned him some of his, foot heavy on the gas.

-TBC


	8. Hold the Balance

**AN:** Again to my anonymous commenter, thank you! I'm so glad you're reading, and knowing that there's someone out there reading who actually understands what's going on make me want to work that much harder to get it right. That being said, I grew up in the era where people just had 'nervous breakdowns' and went away for awhile, and then no one talked about it afterward. So, while I'm intimately familiar with what it's like to live with mental illness, I may not have all facts right when it comes to treatment. I hope I don't get anything too wrong. I'm greatly appreciative that you've taken the time to comment. Thank you so much!

-#-

Kurt wasn't sure what he thought he'd find when they finally got to the hospital a little after midnight. He wasn't actually sure he was thinking at that point, but the tap and stick of his saddle shoes over the freshly waxed linoleum felt like punctuation on thoughts he must have been having. Otherwise, there was some counterpoint syncopated percussion ensemble trading leads between his feet and the skipping heart in his chest. He might've walked past the waiting room if not for his father's guiding hand lightly pinched around the tense muscle where his neck met his shoulders. So, he probably didn't have a coherent train of thought long enough to constitute an actual expectation, when they pushed through the swinging doors, but it felt somehow emptier and quieter than it should have been.

Finn and Mr. Schuester stood from their seats, the vinyl squelching to indicate they'd been sitting there long enough to settle in. Before Kurt had a chance to pull his gaze up from the glaring tile, he felt himself pulled into an embrace, let his head fall onto Miss Pillsbury's shoulder like he'd barely been keeping it up.

"Schuester," Burt acknowledged as the two shook hands. "Any word, yet?"

"Blaine's mom got here about fifteen minutes ago, and they took her right back, but they wouldn't tell us anything," Will sighed, hands on his hips as he shook his head.

"But Mom came down from her ward a few minutes ago on her break and said she'd go back and see what she could find out," Finn offered.

"Kurt, honey, why don't you sit down." Ms. Pillsbury tried to guide him into an empty chair, but Kurt shrugged her off.

"No, please... I'm sorry," he apologized. "We've just been driving for nine hours. I'm through sitting and not being able to do anything! I need to do something. I need to see him and know that he's okay!" Then, despite his statement to the contrary, he sat, but his feet kept moving, heels bouncing as he pulled at his bottom lip, one arm tight across his chest. "God, we should've never gone on that trip."

"Kurt, this is not your fault." Ms. Pillsbury petted the back of his neck as she balanced herself on the arm of the chair beside him so that she could lean in closer.

"No! Dude. You're the one who figured out something was going on and wouldn't take no for an answer until you got someone to go over there and check on him. You totally saved him," Finn argued.

"But if I'd been there... he wouldn't have needed saving."

"Kid, I know you and Blaine are close," his dad said from the chair beside him, "maybe a little too close for this dear old Dad's slightly overprotective heart, but you can't be with him twenty-four hours a day."

"No, but I promised him I'd always be there if he needed to talk. I promised I'd answer if he called. And then, when he really needed me, I went on this trip and left him alone."

"You didn't leave him alone. You left him with his mother and his brother. You didn't know they were both going to leave him alone, and you didn't know he was going to get upset about his dad's birthday," Burt pointed out.

"No, but I did," Mrs. Anderson said, slipping in from the adjoining hallway with Carole at her side. Her mascara was smudged, and her long red nails contrasted starkly with the white tissue clenched in her fist. "Blaine's father has always been..." she shrugged sadly, "a sore spot. For all of us, but for Blaine especially. I should have remembered that today was Tommy's birthday. I got busy. Like I always do. And I almost lost my baby." She sobbed into the tissue and reached out for Kurt who stood and let himself hug and be hugged back. She clung to him. "I'm so grateful he has you, Kurt. You saved his life."

Breaking the embrace, Kurt pulled back, his hands tight on her shoulders. "Is-is he okay? What did the doctor's say? Can I see him?"

"Yeah, is he awake?" Finn interjected only to be hushed by Burt's hand on his back, steering him back to a chair even as everyone else leaned closer, hoping for news.

Pam straightened herself up, wiped at the smeared mascara with only marginal success, and Kurt was torn between helping her and batting the stupid tissue out of her hand. "Here, let me," he offered and used the pad of his thumb to get the last smudge of makeup off. She stilled his hand by taking it in hers and shifted them both to sitting, her hand on his knee.

"Blaine had an episode of tachycardia, which was caused by him not sleeping and then over-exerting himself with the punching bag. It was long enough in duration that he was in serious danger of going into cardiac arrest, but they were able to shock him back into a normal rhythm. He's stable and resting now. They think some of his fingers are sprained, so they taped them up, gave him a mild sedative because of his insomnia- that's a side effect from his new medication- and now they're just waiting for a psychiatric evaluation."

"Wait?" Will said. "A psych evaluation? For a heart condition?"

Ms. Pillsbury tightened her grip on Schue's bicep and put a hand in the center of his back, "Will, I-I think..."

"Obviously, their primary concern is keeping his heartbeat stable and making sure none of his other organs were compromised by lack of blood flow, but the sedation makes it difficult for them to determine his state of mind when all of this happened," Pam explained, a resigned quiver in her voice. "It's possible he's having a reaction to his medication. His psychiatrist should be able to make that determination when she sees him in the morning after the sedation has worn off some." She slumped slightly with a frown looking like she might almost start to cry again. "Given his history and the fact that he went against doctor's orders, they're considering this an episode of self-harm. They're putting him under a mental health hold. "

"We can still see him, though, right?" Kurt pressed, desperate.

She nodded. "Visiting hours are over, but apparently he was asking for you, Kurt, so I asked them to let you go back." Kurt shut his eyes, too grateful for words. She gave him a hug. "I can't thank you enough, Kurt."

"What history?" Burt asked, his face suddenly stern the way it got when he suspected someone wasn't giving him the whole truth about something. When Pam looked at him as if he was speaking out of turn, he reminded her. "You said, 'given his history,' they're calling this self-harm. I want to know what history."

Blaine's mother took Kurt's hands in hers, a familiar gesture, and now Kurt knew where Blaine got it from. "Two years ago, he was doing some work on that car he built with his dad," she took a deep breath before meeting Kurt's gaze, "and he left it running in the garage with the door closed. I found him unconscious in the back seat with his earbuds in, music blaring. It was a miracle I came home early that day." She squeezed Kurt's hands in reassurance. "But he swears, he wasn't trying to hurt himself. He says he just forgot it was running."

"A '59 Chevy isn't exactly quiet," Burt pointed out, unconvinced.

"Neither is his music, especially when he sings along with just about every song," Pam defended. When Burt only nodded slowly, his mouth tightening into a straight line which Kurt knew meant he recognized an excuse when he heard one but didn't want to argue. "Anyway, it was probably a blessing in disguise, because that's when he went on the medication the first time, and he got a lot better."

"And he's going to get better, again." Kurt stood up abruptly, done with the technical speak and speculation when only one thing really mattered. "He needs me. Take me to see him."

"Of course," Pam agreed. "He's asleep, but you can see him."

"Just a few minutes, though, kiddo, okay?" Burt stipulated. "It's been a long day. You'll do Blaine a lot more good if you go home and get a good night's sleep then get here for when he wakes up in the morning."

Kurt nodded, willing at that moment to agree to the surrender of his firstborn. "I just can't go home until I see him."

Burt clapped him on the back. "Fifteen minutes. We'll be right here."

"Shall we?" Kurt extended his hand and helped Pamela to her feet.

Maybe it was the chivalrous thing to do.

Maybe he just really needed a hand to hold.

If they held each other up, just a little, they were just practicing to be there the next time Blaine needed them to be. This couldn't keep happening. Even cats only got nine lives.

-#-

Despite not getting in until almost 2 a.m., needing to unpack the car from their trip, and then unpacking and putting everything away in an effort to burn off the adrenaline tremors, Kurt still managed to get up before his alarm and before everyone else in the house as well. Not only did he want to be at the hospital when visiting hours started at 9, but he was more aware than ever, now, of the summer slipping away. He wasn't going to waste another minute of his and Blaine's time in the same zip code together.

The extra time he had left from beating the alarm he spent online. Research was his friend. It helped him get a grip on the rugs that kept getting yanked out from underneath him. He knew Blaine hated when Kurt overanalyzed things, but he also recognized that sometimes Blaine was impulsive to a degree that went miles beyond just pleasant spontaneity. Like when he spent a day uploading every song that struck an emotional chord with him before punching himself unconscious even though everyone knew Blaine was way smarter than that. Well, everyone except Blaine. So, yeah, maybe Kurt was hoping a little bit of going into things with his eyes wide open would balance out some of Blaine's tendency to see only the backs of his own eyelids.

Or maybe it would just make him tense and near crazy with worry. An informed crazy, but climbing the walls nonetheless, he finally had to slam the laptop shut and leave, if only to spare his fingernails and the enamel on his teeth.

Stopping for coffee bought him enough time to arrive at the hospital at the crack of nine o'clock. Had he not finished drinking all but the last dredges of that coffee before he got there, it might have bought him a ban from the hospital as slamming it down on the desk would likely have been interpreted as a hostile act.

"But I thought visiting hours started at 9?" he asked, impatient.

"They do," the desk nurse, agreed, "but Mr. Anderson is not receiving visitors. His psychiatrist has been in with him, and she's meeting the rest of his family at the moment. You're free to wait here until his mother or his brother come to get you."

He was set to argue that Blaine would want him there, but she was already smiling over his shoulder at the tall, salt and pepper haired woman in a lab coat dropping a clipboard onto the pile at the end of the desk.

"Good morning, Dr. Zalobny," the nurse greeted. "You're here early today."

The doctor offered a half smile, "Well, it makes it a lot easier to re-arrange the rest of your day if you handle the overnight admissions before the day begins. It's not like my bed's all that warm these days, anyway."

They exchanged knowing shrugs before Dr. Zalobny tapped the clipboard she'd just dropped off and said, "I'm taking the Anderson boy off 72 hour watch. There's ideation but no intent. I don't think he's a threat to himself or anyone else.

Darting her eyes to Kurt, who'd resorted to melting against the wall in hopes of 'accidentally' overhearing something about Blaine, the nurse said, "Well, I'm sure there are plenty of people who will be glad to hear that."

"I would like to see him again, though, once the sedative is out of his system," the doctor stipulated. "Make sure they note the change in his medication before they do rounds. I want him off the anti-depressant immediately." She sighed. "Which just goes to show, there's no such thing as a typical case. If he becomes agitated, contact me right away, but don't sedate him again until I've made my final evaluation. I don't want to prescribe anything else until I've consulted with his cardiologist."

"They were just about to do that," the nurse responded, picking up the chart. "I'll get with them right away. Thank you."

With a nod, the two parted ways, and Kurt was left standing in the waiting room alone. For a second, he just stood with his arms crossed over his middle and wondered if he should ask the nurse to let the Andersons know he was there once she got back. Then he realized there was no one to keep him from doing that himself and strode off down the hallway as if he hadn't just been told to wait. Tick-tock, tick-tock, only so many more hours left in the summer, after all.

As decisive as he was in ditching the waiting room, that vanished by the time he actually got to Blaine's room. Instead of knocking once and walking in the way he planned, knowing he belonged there as much as anyone, he froze with is hand fisted in a silent knock at the slap of feet pacing on the other side of the door and what sounded suspiciously like Blaine's mother crying.

"Cooper stop!"

Kurt had forgotten that Cooper had been trying to get a plane back to Ohio when they last talked the night before. He guessed Blaine's brother had made it in.

"I will not stop! He could have died! This is a malpractice suit for sure!" Yeah, that was Cooper, all right. Kurt was confused, though. He'd have thought they'd be happy. Judging from what he'd overheard in the waiting room, Blaine was probably going to be released earlier than the 72 hours they'd been told to expect.

"No, it isn't," Mrs. Anderson said, her voice trembling slightly. "You heard what she said; this happens all the time. They can't make a correct diagnosis if they don't have all the information, especially with someone so young."

"Then why didn't she ask for more information?" Cooper snapped.

"We all went with the simplest answer, here, Cooper. There was no reason to believe it was anything more than a relapse. We all just wanted to fix it and get Blaine better," Pam sniffed.

"And we all did a great job of that, didn't we? He almost died."

"Can you both just stop talking like I'm not here," Blaine interjected. His voice was hard to read through the door. "This is not anybody's fault. People are misdiagnosed all the time. Can we please just find out when Dr. Schwartzmann is going to release me? I don't want to spend any more time in here than I have to."

"Honey, I think you should just rest and let your body recover. Let us worry about..."

"No, he's right," Cooper interrupted. "He shouldn't have to be stuck in here just so you can go to work without feeling guilty about leaving him alone."

"Cooper.." Pam sobbed.

"You might just as well go, now that I'm here. You haven't been here half the time, anyway. You've stepped out to check your phone every fifteen minutes since you got here."

"Stop." Kurt couldn't even be sure he heard Blaine, so it was no surprise Pam and Cooper didn't heed his request.

"Don't you talk to me like that," Pam cried. "How dare you question the attention I give my son when I was the one who played phone tag with your agent and a half dozen incompetent production assistants just to get you to come here and spend time with him."

"Only because Burt Hummel gave you an earful about leaving him alone all day the whole time he was recovering from his eye surgery, and you couldn't foist him off on anyone..."

"Stop it!" The argument cut off abruptly at the sound of Blaine's raised voice. "The two of you obviously don't need me around to discuss my own health and welfare, so please just take it somewhere else!"

"Blainey..."

"Honey..."

"No!" Blaine said. "Just get out! Both of you. Now, before I hit my call button and have you thrown out." Then, quieter. "I'm tired. Would you please just let me sleep until the doctor comes back?"

"Okay, dear, but we'll be right out in the waiting room, if you..."

"Sure thing, Squirt. I'll check on that doctor and see about getting you out of here." Cooper's familiar footsteps retreated away from the door, and his next words were quieter. "You just take it easy. I'll bring you some real food while I'm out."

"Thanks, Coop."

The door swung open before Kurt could step out of the way, and he found himself face to face with a red-faced Pam Anderson.

"Kurt," she said with a start, her hand fluttering up in surprise at almost running into him. "I'm sorry, honey, Blaine needs his rest."

"Let him in, Mom."

She nodded softly then stepped aside before heading out, clutching her purse in front of her.

Cooper covered the room in two big strides and pulled Kurt into a hug so tight, Kurt's neck bent back almost painfully due to the proximity. "Thank you so much, Kurt. I would've never gone on that audition if I'd known she was going to leave him alone. If you and your dad hadn't..."

"It's okay, Cooper. We got his back." Kurt spoke to Cooper but locked eyes with Blaine who was colored ten shades of wrecked and looked to be barely keeping himself seated upright against the pillows.

"Yeah. Yeah..." At a loss for words for the first time since Kurt had met him, Cooper patted Kurt on the shoulder and released him, swiping momentarily at his eyes with his sleeve, before nodding. "You do." He cleared his throat roughly and took a step toward the door. "I'm going to grab some breakfast. Can I bring you back anything?"

"No, thank you." Kurt shook his head, already sliding a hip up onto the edge of Blaine's bed by the time the door clicked shut.

A million questions jostled for position in the forefront of Kurt's spinning mind, like what was Blaine thinking when he sent some of those songs, and how could he hurt himself like that, and what did the psychiatrist say... but sitting there, he found he could breathe again for what felt like the first time in days, and he didn't want to waste any of that breath on something he knew Blaine would give him in his own time. Instead, he just sat, felt the livewire quiver of Blaine, awake and alive beside him, noted the tremble in his bandaged fingers as they reached out for his, the quaver in his breath, and said, "I missed you."

And Blaine... crumpled.

-#-

For the second time in two days, Blaine lost track of time. Or maybe he'd never really had it pinned down at all. He just knew that one second he was bristling, angry, and desperate to just be left alone, the next he was buried in Kurt's chest, and judging by the snotty mess, he'd been there awhile. The part of his mind that was closest to surfacing suspected he must also have slipped into an alternate universe, because Kurt was not saying anything about water stains on his vest, let alone the snot, which usually gave Kurt a swift kick in the gag reflex.

Kurt wasn't saying anything. Something wasn't right about that.

Kurt talked. That's how he dealt. No awkward silence or bubbling tension was ever allowed to go uncontested while Kurt Hummel was around. He couldn't help but challenge it with every tightly wound fiber that made up the rope of his being. But he wasn't saying anything.

The only noise in the room was the heart monitor and Blaine's hiccupping sniffles, and there was nothing awkward about it. It was just comfortable and safe in a way that Blaine hadn't realized he'd lost until he found it again. It felt... okay. He felt okay just being, and Kurt let him be.

Kurt let him be scared and exhausted, mortified at falling apart when he'd been trying so hard for so long to keep it all together, let him be disappointed. Kurt let him be without argument or chastisement, promises or encouragement, until Blaine was okay, just for a minute. That's all he needed was a minute.

"They're putting me in the hospital." Blaine said it like he was leaving a voicemail and needed to get it out before the beep and leave time at the end to awkwardly sign off. "They're changing my medication, and they're afraid..." he trailed off, because there's no way they were as afraid as he was. "They're worried about affecting my heart, and want me where they can monitor it closely."

Kurt didn't make a sound. His heart just kept beating warm and steady in Blaine's ear, his arms a heavy blanket cocooned around him. "How long?"

"Three weeks... probably. Not right away, though. They want me to... recover first, but then..." he took a shaky breath, "so hopefully I can be stable by the time school starts."

He didn't know if he imagined Kurt's breath hitch, but his voice was schooled and even when he asked, "This was the medication?"

Blaine shrugged, the movement jarring them both slightly with Kurt's arms still wrapped around him. "Sort of... I guess if they misdiagnose you as depressed when you're really bipolar, antidepressants can..." his throat tightened around the words, around the unspoken stigma attached to them, "trigger a manic or mixed episode." He used Dr. Zalobny's words verbatim, because he hadn't had time to process them into his own yet, wasn't entirely sure he understood her hasty explanation well enough to paraphrase.

When Kurt just dropped his chin onto the crown of Blaine's head and held him a little bit tighter still, Blaine pressed his forehead against the swell of his chest, breathed in the stale air between them, thick with the scent of cologne and sweat and detergent mixed with saline. "I feel like I'm trying so hard to do everything I'm supposed to do, but everything keeps getting so messed up, Kurt."

"Yeah, it kinda does," Kurt agreed. "Luckily, we've both had plenty of practice at figuring things out. You'll keep on trying, and I'll keep on trying. We'll figure this out, too."

"I love you."

"Well, I am pretty lovable."

The laugh physically hurt, and sounded more like a cough, mucousy, and thick, and just what he needed to break up the knots in his chest. Laughter through tears was his new favorite thing ever.

The crying over, Blaine listened to the steady thump-thump of Kurt's heart in his ear, and even with his own beating raucously on the monitor beside them, it was the most peaceful he'd felt in days. Longer.

"Is it okay if we just...?"

Kurt half-stood and turned, switching from one hip up on the bed to the other and dropped his messenger bag to the floor so he could slide farther up against the headboard. Not too far, though. The comfortable slouch made the bed dip just so, and Blaine nestled into the gravitational pull against Kurt's side.

"I'm going to miss you," Kurt confessed.

"It'll be good practice," Blaine offered, not really believing the words when it felt like they were being robbed. "But I'm here now," he said, his hand sliding down the outside of Kurt's thigh before landing on his knee with a reassuring squeeze.

Kurt let him be here.

-#-

"Did Dr. Zalobny mention concerns about drug interaction when you spoke earlier?" Dr. Schwartzmann hadn't really done more than a cursory examination of Blaine, taking most of his information from the EKG and making a few notes on the chart before draping his stethoscope back around his neck and clasping his hands in the front of stomach.

"Not really, just that the new medications she wants to start me on affect everyone differently," Blaine shrugged.

"That's true, not only mentally, but physically," the doctor agreed. "While several classes of antidepressants work in coordination with the beta blockers you're currently taking, mood stabilizers can react adversely. It may take a few tries to find a combination that works well for you with the fewest ... unpleasant side effects." He nodded, lips and chin curling decisively. "I agree that inpatient treatment will be in your best interest."

Blaine just smoothed the sheet between his thumb and thigh, his other hand threaded tightly with Kurt's. He hadn't been expecting anything different, but having to hear it twice in the span of just a couple hours made him feel like a puppy being threatened with a rolled up newspaper.

"That being said, everything here seems to be fine. You're recovering nicely, and while I would still like to continue that conversation with you about the ICD, it will have to wait until after we get your medication straightened out. If you don't have any episodes of sustained vtach between now and tomorrow morning, I'll release you."

Blaine and Kurt both moved to speak at the same time, and the doctor raised a hand to quiet them. "I know you were hoping to be discharged today, but I'd really like to see you remain stable for a full 24 hours. If neither of you have any other questions?"

They both deflated, Kurt's vinyl chair squelching as he slumped back.

"Thank you, Doctor," Blaine sighed, his disappointment thick.

When Dr. Schwartzmann turned to leave the room, he nearly crashed into Blaine's mom, who thankfully followed him back out into the hall to continue the conversation. In the slight scuffle, a large bouquet of flowers supported on tiny legs squeaked through the doorway and settled onto the nightstand to reveal Emma Pillsbury.

She blinked, smoothing her hands over her skirt as she uttered a quick, "Boys," in greeting.

"Hey, Ms. P." Blaine managed a tight smile and resisted the urge to turn away, tired of the constant traffic and the attention for something he'd done to himself. He was starting to feel like a specimen. "What're you doing here?"

She seemed to be looking around her for the best place to stand that would be equidistant from anything that might be covered in hospital germs. At least she left the hand sanitizer and nitrile gloves at home. She cleared her throat, "Well, Will... uh, Mr. Schuester wanted to stop by, but he got held up writing a proposal to put before the school board at their end of year meeting this evening." Her eyes darted around the room self-consciously, "I'm actually a little surprised there aren't more people here. Where are all of your friends?"

Blaine tightened his grip on Kurt's hand. "We haven't really told a lot of people I'm here. And I managed to convince everyone else, that it's no big deal, just some tests..."

"Well, I hardly think it's no big deal," Ms. Pillsbury said, obviously disappointed. "Times like these are when it's most important to have a strong support system in place, don't you think?"

Kurt jumped to Blaine's defense. "He has a support system. He has me and his mom and brother. My dad and Carole would do anything for him. Finn's planning to come by later. He's bringing movies and..."

Emma nodded, blinking down at her fingers as she worked the cuticle of her right index finger with the thumbnail of her left hand. "I see. I just... Well, how are you, Blaine?"

"Um, I can probably go home tomorrow." He fidgeted with the bandages on his fingers, curling tighter against Kurt's side.

"That's good," she nodded, "Not what I asked, though."

Blaine liked her. She had a timid confidence about her, certain in her convictions but intimidated at the prospect and method of sharing those convictions, as if the air itself might be judging her. Blaine could definitely relate. But not today. Today he only had the desire or energy to engage Kurt. He hadn't even honestly answered that question with himself, didn't know how he was, other than... unwell.

"Tired, mostly." He settled for partial truth. "My psychiatrist was here at the crack of dawn." And that's all he had to say about that. He wasn't ready to think about mixed states or mania or the way his doctor had dismissed the events of the day before as the result of poor choices he made while in an agitated state. Yeah, like he just picked heads when he should've said tails, instead of spending hours broaching delirium, interchangeably wallowing and raging before he nearly stopped his own heart. He'd have plenty of time for thinking about all of that when he was admitted next week. Not now.

"Well," she said, exhaling like the tension in the room had just shifted, "it's unfortunate that you had to go through this, but at least now you can get the right kind of help. And of course you know that, as part of your support system, my office is always open to you." She rocked a little on one of her high heels and added, "Except for now, you know, because it's summer, and therefore my office is officially closed, but as soon as school starts up again..."

"Thank you." Blaine didn't mean to sound so dismissive, but he really was dismissing her. He was barely settling into his own skin at the moment, and she was making him twitchy.

"And you know Will is sometimes a little... under-educated in what he chooses to say, but he really does care. You shouldn't hesitate to talk to him, if for instance, Kurt is unavailable."

By unavailable, Blaine knew she meant hundreds of miles away in New York. He wondered if she shared his mother's and Dr. Zalobny's concerns about his relationship with Kurt, but if he wasn't in a place where he was ready to consider his own mental state at the moment, he definitely wasn't in a place to consider how Kurt affected it, not while Kurt was solid and warm and there. Not while Kurt was willing to just sit there and let him be when everyone else seemed determined to pick at his scabs.

He was relieved when both his mother and Cooper popped in at that moment, and suddenly there were enough people present to keep the conversation going without Blaine having to do much more than smile or nod. The only words he really heard were the soft back forth sweep of Kurt's thumb over the back of his hand. _I'm here. I'm here. I'm here_.

-#-

If starting the antidepressants had put him in what his therapist called a 'mixed' state, somewhere pinballing between depression and mania, then being off them again, knowing that he wasn't 'stabilized' made him wish, more than once, that he'd gone straight from the hospital to the mental health center without the week in between. That week was supposed to be for recovery, a vacation of sorts before he got down to the hard work of getting better, but Dr. Zalobny made him see his new therapist twice in that week to help him understand his diagnosis and what to expect from the treatment. All that did was remind him he wasn't okay.

He wasn't okay.

And the worst part of that was, he didn't even know how not okay he was. Depression he understood, sort of. He understood that feeling terrible or numb was not okay, especially when he had no explanation, given everything he had, why he wasn't happy, ecstatic even. He understood needing help to feel better, or at least, closer to good.

Bipolar was scary, because, if he understood what they were telling him, then it wasn't okay to feel good either. Being energized, motivated, productive, freaking dancy happy and jumping on furniture was not okay, even if he wanted it to be, even if that's _who_ he needed to be, what he needed to _feel_.

Maybe he didn't understand it, and probably that's what the inpatient treatment was for. The way it sounded, though, he wasn't supposed to feel dead inside, but he wasn't supposed to feel alive either.

Dead was sickness. Alive was sickness. What was okay, and how much was real? If everything came down to chemical reactions, electrical pathways, and the context in which they occurred, then how much of what he felt was him, and how much was sickness? How much would go away when he was better? Would that really be better?

He asked Kurt. "Is this real?" Their laced fingers felt electric, their ions bonded in the basest way possible, sharing the charge between them. Kurt didn't question chemistry. His brain wasn't broken like Blaine's.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

He thought about it too much and constantly, which was no small feat considering he was never alone for longer than it took to go to the bathroom or shower for the entire duration of that week. Not his choice. Not just the recommendation of his therapist, either, but a combination of guilt and paranoia on the part of just about everyone he knew. Not his choice, no, but definitely his fault. He was sorry for that.

These people didn't deserve the guilt, and he didn't deserve the attention.

His dad never called or replied to the embarrassingly honest posts Blaine had made on his wall that day, but he saw them. He must have, because he deleted his Facebook page a day later. Blaine wasn't surprised. He was probably angry or hurt, but what did he know anymore? He would ask his therapist. He'd be in the hospital over Father's Day. He'd ask about it then.

Despite his own confusion and misgivings, Blaine thought he did a pretty decent job of putting everyone else at ease. He had to, being that they hovered around him constantly. Besides, it gave him a project, something to do inside his crawling skin that wouldn't get him coddled or reprimanded or shushed, wouldn't draw any harried glances or warrant any (more) awkward conversations he didn't want to have. He had 'fun' when Cooper insisted on taking him and Kurt to Six Flags for a day and didn't even remind his brother that he'd worked there two summers in a row and had already seen and done everything more than once. He made sure to compliment Carol's cooking profusely so there was no question that he enjoyed every bite of it, really and truly, really... And he became an expert at studying faces, cataloging the 'normal' emotions of everyone around him so he could mirror back the appropriate amount of energy for the situation, histrionic in his delivery and presentation of Blaine Anderson, opting not to wonder if he was being too much or too little. Or real.

He thought he was doing a good job being present, being real, being adult enough to accept his fate, accepting the help they wanted to give him, that he needed it, wanted to get better. No one knew how terrified he was that getting better meant losing everything that was good about him now.

It took Kurt to show him the help he needed could be given without him asking, and Kurt to remind him that what he was afraid of losing and what he had to gain were one and the same.

-#-

It was Kurt's idea to have dinner at the Andersons' the night before Blaine went into treatment, made better by Pam staying overnight in Columbus in order to be able to get in a few more hours work in the morning. She planned to meet Blaine and Cooper at the hospital there in the morning when Blaine was due to check in, which meant it was just Blaine, Kurt, and Cooper for dinner, and Kurt had permission to stay the night.

The idea had been to stay up all night watching bad t.v. with Cooper's behind the scenes commentary to elevate the mood, and Cooper may have offered to ply them with alcohol if necessary. (Kurt secretly hoped he just plied himself with enough alcohol to quietly pass out early.) After a week of watching Blaine drift like the plastic bag in one of his beloved Katy Perry songs, Kurt was willing to do just about anything to get one genuine smile out of him before they got forcibly separated for three weeks out of their last summer.

Not until they rehashed old banter through dinner, any current event off the table of discussion, and nodded their way through Cooper's seventh re-telling of how he'd landed his free credit rating dot com commercial did Kurt realize his brand of orchestrated fake mirth was no different than the plastered on smiles he was trying to rub out. As soon as Blaine was positioned at the sink, rinsing plates and forks with nothing but the kitchen window to mirror, the fake smile slipped, his shoulders sagged, and if the clattering silverware was any indication, he was putting a lot less effort into keeping his hands steady, the Risperdal seemingly just another word for will power that lost its power when Blaine got too tired to make it work.

Kurt took in all of this over the top of the refrigerator door as he slid in the last Tupperware container of leftovers and took out some Gatorade and water. He probably left the door open a little longer than necessary as Sarah McLachlan's, "The Answer," came on the iPod docked in the corner, running up the electric meter a couple ticks higher as he took a minute to realize how much he missed Blaine already when he hadn't even left the room, yet.

The drinks ended up sweating rings on the countertop as Kurt stepped up behind Blaine and wrapped his arms around him, trapping Blaine's to his sides and forcibly stopping the dishwashing so he was forced to look up and lock eyes in the window reflection. It was the closest they'd been, physically, since Kurt's trip to New York. There was a tiny tremor vibrating beneath Blaine's skin Kurt had only ever felt during sex, but there was nothing erotic in his hollowed out expression to back it up. That same expression, upon catching Kurt's eyes in the window, flashed into a grin that Kurt didn't return and gradually melted away again as Blaine ducked his eyes.

Kurt couldn't think of anything to say that hadn't been said already. If Blaine hadn't heard it by then, he wasn't going to make him hear it now. Not by saying it again.

Instead he said, "Dance with me," and turned up the volume on the music.

 _(I will be the answer_

 _At the end of the line_

 _I will be there for you_

 _While you take the time)_

Blaine nodded, dropping the gloves on the side of the sink along with the sponge and turned in Kurt's arms without raising his eyes.

 _(In the burning of uncertainty_

 _I will be your solid ground_

 _I will hold the balance_

 _If you can't look down)_

They swayed together, not speaking, not singing, just moving, around the island, around the table, and in front of the patio doors, just tangled arms and thumping hearts over shuffling feet.

( _If it takes my whole life,_

 _I won't break, I won't bend_

 _And it will all be worth it_

 _Worth it in the end)_

At some point, Blaine melted closer, his cheek flat against the jut of Kurt's collarbone as his arms slid under Kurt's and up his back, palms flat against scapulae, thumbs brushing over the caps of shoulders. Kurt tightened his own at Blaine's waist, fingertips grappling onto oblique muscles, forearms crossed at the small of his back so they were flush from sternum to hip, Blaine's back arched in the circle of Kurt's arms.

 _(I can only tell you what I know_

 _That I need you in my life_

 _And when the stars have all gone out_

 _You'll still be, burning so bright.)_

In the end, Cooper whooped once from the living room and slid into the kitchen on stocking feet, obviously bursting to share something in typical scene stealing fashion, only to dismiss himself a second later and retreat to the living room with a six pack and a bag of chips.

When they retired up the stairs to Blaine's room there was no hint of pretense, no plan to fix or forget or gloss over, just gentle touches and sparking glances and the promise of more. Right then, everything in their lives upside down and sideways, it was the only promise they knew they could keep.

 _(Cast me gently, into morning_

 _For the night has been unkind_

 _Take me to a place so holy_

 _That I can wash this from my mind_

 _The memory of choosing not to fight_.)

-#-

After, Kurt nestled close behind him, lazily pressing kisses into the sweat damp hair at the back of his neck. Blaine pulled Kurt's arms tighter around his chest, tilting his head onto the shoulder slid underneath his pillow to give soothing lips a clear path all the way up to his jaw and that spot behind his ear that always made Blaine's brain turn to mush. He welcomed the blissful haze, the quiet, comfortable weight of Kurt, over him, through him, in him, as their legs tangled together, fingers intertwined.

Though he did his best to keep his breathing even and steady, his eyes must have watered, a cooling track slipping into a pool on Kurt's arm that made him scooch up even closer, barely room for skin between them.

"Blaine?"

"This is real, right? It's not going to..." He could tell the moment Kurt finally understood the question. Could tell by the way his chest stopped rising and falling behind him, the way his kisses halted as he weighed his answer, knew his answer mattered probably more than any other he'd ever given. _I don't know. I hope so. Of course._

But Kurt didn't patronize or speculate, said the only thing they both knew to be one hundred percent truth.

"It is for me." He used his extra height to prop himself up on an elbow and leverage Blaine around in his arms until they were trading breath, eyes so close they almost crossed to stay in focus. "I love you, Blaine Anderson, and I'm just going to keep on loving you until there is no doubt anywhere in your mind that this," he tightened his grip everywhere so that Blaine could feel him in his pores, "is real in every way that counts."

Blaine had never had trouble with the words, but his throat closed on the 'I love you' he tried to return. He never, ever, ever wanted that to be a lie, even if it felt like truth, had always felt like truth.

"Th-thank, thank you, Kurt, for not giving up on me."

Kurt smiled, wan and small, but genuine, his face close enough now, so that his lips were actually touching Blaine's cheek when he said, "Just promise me you won't ever give up on yourself."

"I promise."

-TBC


	9. Star Spangled Suck

**AN:** Thanks again, everyone for reading. And once again to my amazing guest commenter who seems to be astoundingly astute when it comes to mental illness, thank you so much for keeping me honest in my storytelling. I actually knew that about antidepressants and bipolar disorder, so I'm glad you realized where I was going, so I must have set that up correctly. As for both ARVC and bipolar being hereditary, I actually mused to myself that whenever Klaine decide to have kids they're going to be hard pressed to decide which gene pool to dive into, since Blaine's got the ARVC and mental illness on his side, and Kurt apparently has heart issues and cancer (though I don't include the prostate cancer in this story). They should either adopt or just take a chance that medicine will advance faster than their kids will age. As for the medication madness, I touch on that several times over the course of the story, but don't go into too much detail, as the more detailed I get, the more likely I am to screw something up completely and render this all a farce. I hope you continue to enjoy, especially since you took the time to comment at 3 in the morning, which is, incidentally, the time I'm most likely to be awake and writing this story.

 **Warnings:** There's sex in this chapter. It's written rather pretentiously, so you have to read between the lines. I'm not opposed to writing the sex scenes, but I prefer not to in established relationship stories, and I didn't want to raise the rating on the story. I felt like it needed to happen here, so I went with this. I'd say it's PG-13.

 **Summary:** This is probably a Wednesday episode.

It wasn't quite the summer vacation Kurt had planned. Instead of spending every waking minute and as many non-waking minutes as possible with the love of his life engaging in doctor approved sex and planning every visit, Skype and otherwise, to New York for the upcoming year, he spent most days with Finn or Rachel or (ugh) both, planning the big move in and renovation to the Bushwick loft. Not that Kurt wasn't excited about that. Re-designing the open space of their new apartment with Rachel actually made hours of time fly by, and he managed not to feel guilty for anticipating the move at least ninety percent of the time while he was planning it.

The rest of the time he just spent missing Blaine both presently and pre-emptively. It really did feel like both torture and practice in anticipation of future torture, like the four months of Saturday long runs leading up to a marathon.

"Dude, where's Blaine? He's not doing the show?"

"No, uh, he's... in L.A... with Cooper. Big brother bonding trip," Kurt lied. "He won't be back until the weekend before." He regretted lying to Sam, even more that they hadn't really discussed how much Blaine wanted everyone to know about his condition before he went into the hospital. Kurt knew mental illness was nothing to be ashamed of, but since he'd been dating Blaine for over a year and was only just finding out about his struggles, it was obviously not something Blaine was comfortable sharing. Kurt didn't necessarily agree, and hoped they'd help him work that out in the hospital, but until then, he didn't see outing Blaine as an option any more than he'd have outed Dave Karofsky.

"That sucks," Sam lamented. "I mean, not the bro bonding time, but missing our last big gig together before all you guys leave for college."

"For real," Puck added, leaning down from the row of chairs behind them. "Sam can make it all the way from Kentucky, but preppy can't blow off his brother until after the Fourth?"

"We're going out with a bang, literally. It won't be the same without him bouncing around like one of those hyperactive little designer dogs." Sam grinned fondly.

"I know," Kurt agreed, "And Blaine really hates missing the Star Spangled Spectacular, but since he can't make any of the practices..."

"Maybe he's afraid of fireworks," Brittany interjected from the row directly ahead of where Kurt sat in the choir room. "Some puppies are afraid of loud noises. You should get him one of those thunder shirts."

"Blaine's not a puppy, Brit," Kurt explained, not sure how to respond. It was Brittany, after all. Delusion and clarity were practically common denominators in her reality.

"Yes he is," she said. "You know how he gets."

"No, Brittany, how does he get?" Kurt huffed, rolling his eyes as he slouched lower in his chair.

Brittany shrugged, her high pony bobbing. "You know. He gets all kind of hyper and yappy like he's gotta pee, but then he won't go no matter how many times you put him on the paper. Then, just when it starts to get really annoying you realize all he wants is someone to pat him on the head and rub his belly. After that he'll curl up in your lap and go right to sleep."

Sam and Kurt traded incredulous shrugs. Even if Brittany was possibly onto something more astute than either of them wanted to acknowledge, neither was willing to consider it if doing so meant revisiting the image of Blaine peeing on a newspaper or rolling over to get his belly rubbed. They elected to delete that particular interaction and edit their conversation back together where they'd left off.

"Since when does he need to practice?" Sam scoffed. "With his experience at Six Flags, he could probably wing it. That Fourth of July show is always huge. Compared to that..."

"Well, he just wouldn't feel right..." Kurt dismissed. He'd forgotten that Blaine sometimes made performing look so easy that most people didn't have any idea that it only looked easy because of the hours he spent perfecting every detail. It was still mildly unsettling to realize, in hindsight, just how hard Blaine had always worked to stay ahead of anything that could possibly go wrong so that no one would have to see him be less than perfect. To think, Kurt used to find that motivation and work ethic kind of endearing, a hint of true passion. Now, he couldn't think of it as anything other than exhausting, heartbreaking that Blaine always had to be perfect and never just be Blaine.

"Maybe if Mr. Schue had known about this gig before yesterday, he could've rescheduled his trip," Kurt suggested. It wasn't an outright lie. Maybe if Blaine had been preparing for their Fourth of July show, he'd have been too distracted for the loneliness and abandonment to swallow him whole the way it had. Maybe... but then he wouldn't be getting the help he needed, either.

"Mr. Schue did say it was voluntary," Quinn noted. "Not everyone can just re-arrange their whole summer at the drop of a hat."

On cue, a waft of barely aged nostalgia strolled through the door and up to the white board where Mr. Schue wrote "Independence" before turning to face the group. "Great!" he said, hands spread wide in a gesture of welcoming. "Thanks for agreeing to this completely voluntary disruption of everyone's summer vacation plans. Looking around, it seems like just about everyone has made it." His hands clapped shut in front of himself. "We're just missing Sugar, who's in Italy with her family and Blaine, who..."

"He's afraid of fireworks," Brittany interrupted.

"I don't think that's quite the situation, Britt…" Mr. Schue stammered.

Brittany stood, addressing everyone. "Unless we band together and sell American flag pins to raise the money to buy him a thunder shirt, he'll be spending the Fourth of July hiding behind the sofa. We can't let that happen. The dust bunnies have been breeding like bunnies back there." Santana took her by the hand and pulled her back into her seat, but Brittany wasn't quite ready to give it up, squeaking out a final, "Stop the tyranny. No puppy left unprotected!"

Santana patted her on the back. "No more late night Animal Planet marathons for you, Britts."

Kurt threw a cupped Miss America hand in the air, "Blaine is in L.A. visiting his brother, Cooper, until the end of the month, but will definitely be at the performance for moral support. He sends his best."

Mouth still open, Mr. Schuester raised his eyebrows and snapped it shut, butt chin wrinkling around the silent judgment Kurt imagined he was making in the face of the bold-faced lie. Luckily, Schue seemed to pick up on the hint, supported by Finn's nervous duck of his head and glance away when he was looked to for a silent explanation.

"Okay, then. Those of us who are here need to pick a set list. I've spoken with the organizers, and since the community orchestra is going to be doing all the classic patriotic standards, they're allowing us to sing anything we want, so long as we stick to the theme of 'Independence.'" He paused briefly. "And... go."

-#-

Kurt hoped he wasn't overdressed. Despite almost always being on the more fashion forward and put together end of the spectrum amongst his peers, he really wasn't sure what constituted appropriate attire for visiting day at a mental health facility. Subconsciously, he knew he'd dressed like this was a date, like he'd be picking Blaine up at the door and taking him away for a few hours of romance, when in actuality, they wouldn't be allowed to leave, and he wouldn't even know if Blaine was available for visiting until he actually got there. He'd been warned that the first week of treatment was often the toughest, and Blaine might not be feeling up to seeing anyone.

He would see Kurt, though. Right? He had to. After a week of non-communication, which was part of the treatment program and not anyone's choice, he didn't think he could possibly wait any longer to see Blaine. It was hard enough sitting through the Saturday glee club practice with an empty chair next to him where he'd become accustomed to having Blaine, constantly scooching the chair a few inches closer than everyone else's, the whole time knowing Saturday was the one day a week he was actually allowed to be with more than just his empty chair.

He stopped at the desk, only ever having been there on the day Blaine was admitted and still not entirely sure what visiting day protocol involved. "Um, excuse me," he said almost apologetically as the woman on the other side was forced to look up from what she was doing to address him. "I'm here to see Blaine Anderson. Is he taking visitors today?"

"Ah, Blaine," she noted. "Let's see. His doctor was actually just by a bit ago. Let me see what she put on his chart." She rolled her chair to the other side of the cubicle near a stack of plastic mail trays and pulled a folder from the stack marked, 'In.' She flipped open the cover and made a sympathetic frown as she cocked her head slightly. "It says here he can have visitors in his room, but he's not going to be able to go out in the common areas today." She closed the chart with a swoosh and met Kurt's gaze. "I hope you weren't planning a picnic or anything."

"No, uh no. That's fine." He nodded and turned around, then realized he didn't know which of the three hallways to go down and spun back on his heel. "Sorry. I'm sorry, but this is my first time visiting. Can you tell me where his room is, exactly?"

She grinned. "Sure, sweetie. It's 147. You'll need this." She handed him a sign in sheet and traded it back for a visitor badge, waiting for him to write his name on it with a provided Sharpie and fix it to the lapel of his suit coat. Satisfied, she stood and leaned over the desk, pointing down the rightmost hallway, a set of glass doors blocking the entrance which proclaimed in block letters to be the CLOSED PSYCHIATRIC UNIT- registered visitors only. "Down there, about halfway on the left."

Thanking her, he strode over to the door, waved to the middle-aged gentleman on the other side who looked like some sort of security personnel and flashed his super official Visitor badge. When the door buzzed, he walked through, suddenly more nervous than he'd been all day, and smoothed his hands over the front of his jacket. Blaine's room was right where he'd been told and took him less than a minute to find. Still, he spent another minute trying to decide what the etiquette was before knocking brusquely three times and poking his head inside with his firmest grin plastered in place. "Knock-knock. Visitor for Mr. Blaine Warbler," he announced.

"Kurt!" Blaine greeted from across the room. "You're here!"

Kurt took the opportunity to enter the rest of the way with a flourish, squinting to find Blaine. He hadn't been expecting the room to be so... dark. The only light streaked in between window blinds that were just slightly parted, painting faint stripes of illumination across the wall behind the lone bed, which was empty. A flickering fluorescent bulb hummed to life from above the nightstand, casting Blaine in silhouette where he was sitting in a recliner beside it. Apparently these rooms were set up to be a little more comfortable for more ambulatory patients.

Spying him, Kurt came over and plopped on the bed as if it was just another after school afternoon spent in one of their bedrooms where they feigned studying between makeout sessions. "Of course I'm here. It's the one day they let people in, and I miss you like crazy. I'd have been here hours ago except Mr. Schue got us a gig doing the Star Spangled Spectacular, and now we have Saturday practices until then."

"The Fourth of July celebration? That's awesome, Kurt." Blaine's voice was a little tight, like he was trying to speak with his back teeth locked together. "It sucks that I'm missing it. I do a mean 'Grand Old Flag.'"

As Kurt's eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior of the room, the plastered on smile became a little higher maintenance than he cared to acknowledge. Even with the light above and behind him doing unflattering things to the shadows around Blaine's face, Kurt thought Blaine seemed hollower somehow, his eyes just a little deeper in the sockets with less internal light than Kurt was used to, and his forehead shone a little too much, moistened with a damp sheen that ensnared the loose curls around his temples.

"Really?" Kurt teased. "I'd have pegged you for more of a 'Yankee Doodle Dandy.'"

Blaine snickered, immediately flinching and pressing a knuckle between his eyes with a grimace.

"Headache?" Kurt ventured. That would explain the lack of light in the room.

Blaine nodded, still massaging the knuckle into the space above the bridge of his nose. "Which may or may not be a side effect of the new meds. Could just be stress, too. That's the thing about headaches. They're a symptom of just about everything." He worked his jaw. "And I think my wisdom teeth are coming in."

"Have there been a lot of those? Side effects, I mean?"

"Not a lot," Blaine shrugged. "Just the worst ones." A mirthless smile which only caused Kurt to frown deeper. "I've only been on these for a couple of days, so it's hard to say. The first ones they tried didn't seem bad at all, but they did something to my heart rate, probably an interaction with my other medication, so they didn't want to risk it. They put me on these, and they haven't been bad either, just a little shakiness until this morning when I woke up with this headache. Don't seem to be affecting my heart, though." He pointed with a slightly trembling hand to the device on his hip that Kurt recognized as the power unit for the Holter monitor. The doctor had explained on admitting day that they'd have Blaine wear the monitor as long as he was an inpatient, both to monitor his reaction to the medications/treatment and to get a better understanding of the progression of his condition.

Kurt leaned across the space between the edge of the bed and the chair, reaching for Blaine's hands which were offered freely. The trembling was more noticeable under his fingertips, and he tried to soothe them away with the pads of his thumbs. "They asked about you in glee club this morning." He didn't look up to gauge Blaine's reaction, just kept up the ministrations of his hands over Blaine's.

"What-what did you tell them?"

"Well, we hadn't really discussed it, so I told them you were in L.A. visiting Cooper." He tightened his grip on Blaine's hands, just holding as if to add sincerity to his next words. "But Blaine, I want you to know that I don't think this is something you need to keep secret. I don't know if you are, but you shouldn't be ashamed. I just didn't think it was my place..."

"No, no," Blaine assuaged, pulling gently on Kurt's hands until he crossed the space between them and ended up on the padded arm of the chair, his legs draped across Blaine's, and Blaine's head fell against his shoulder. " I don't want it to be a secret. I'm sorry we didn't talk about what you should tell people. I was kind of wrapped up in my own head there for a while. I still kinda am." He sighed. "I'm glad you didn't tell them today, though. I'd really rather they didn't come here. I don't think I have the energy for all that... drama, you know. I'd rather address it on my own terms." His hand fell warm and heavy on the span of Kurt's leg at the junction of knee and thigh, his thumb stroking over the tendon pulled tight along the back. "You can tell them if you want. You shouldn't have to make up stories for my sake."

"If I do, I'll let them know to give you your space." He draped an arm around Blaine's neck, pulling his head closer against his side and slouched down a little farther against the back of the chair. "So how are you otherwise?"

"Tired." The weight of the word felt heavier in the air than its one small syllable would justify.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. All I do is talk about it. Therapy. Group therapy. With my psychiatrist. With the other patients. I know that's what I'm here for, but..."

"Shhhh." Kurt stroked the backs of his curled fingers over the hair just behind Blaine's ear and felt some of the tension release. "Later," he said. "When you're feeling better."

They stayed like that, silent for a few breaths more, and Kurt felt Blaine's jaw tighten and release a few times as if he was trying to scrape the right words off the roof of his mouth or the back of his brain. "I did learn something, though, from all that talking."

"Hmm?"

Gripping Kurt's thigh just a little tighter and sliding his palm up to the jut of hipbone so he was effectively hugging everything from the waist down, Blaine pressed a kiss into the silken fabric over Kurt's ribs and exhaled, his breath clinging over the underlying skin like the fog over a late thaw.

"This is real. It's real for me, too."

"I know." Kurt did. What he didn't know was how something so real could, in the thick of it, the two of them wrapped up like halves of the same double helix, feel so much like a dream.

-#-

"All right!" Mr. Schue exclaimed. "So, we've got a New Directions re-arrangement of the Trouble Tones' Regional Number of Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive' mashed up with Destiny's Child's 'Survivor.' That's one. Any other suggestions?"

"Kelly Clarkson's 'Breakaway,'" Tina suggested.

"Perfect!" Mr. Schue seemed especially excited, Kurt noticed. He usually only got that way when he was planning to hijack the number himself. Somehow he didn't see Mr. Schuester doing Kelly Clarkson, though. Maybe he was just enjoying this one last chance to have his National Champions perform together.

"Oh! Oh! I have one!" Rachel jumped out of her chair. "My m-Miss Corcoran has a lot of connections in the industry, and there's this song that totally fits the bill, and it hasn't even been released yet. It's from the new Disney movie that's currently in production and won't be released until probably next fall. It's called 'Let It Go,' and..."

"And I'm sure it's perfect, Rachel." Mr. Schue's voice couldn't have been more like a pat on the head if he'd actually patted her on the head. "But after the whole cease and desist scare with My Chemical Romance, we're not going to touch that with a ten foot pole."

" 'Independence Day' by Martina Mcbride," Sam suggested. He would be pick a country song, and a highly inappropriate one, at that.

"No!" Kurt had to protest. "If we do that one, we might as well do 'Blown Away,' by Carrie Underwood while we're at it."

"Oooh! I love that one," Brittany squeaked.

"Mr. Schuesteeeerrr." Rachel rolled her eyes. "We cannot do songs about murdering abusive spouses, even if it's justified or an act of God."

"I have to agree with Kurt and Rachel on this one, guys. No songs that appear to condone violence," Mr. Schue said.

"Riiight, because 'rocket's red glare and bombs bursting in air' implies the Americans and the Brits had a completely amicable split," Quinn simpered.

"I wanna do 'Follow the Drinking Gourd," Mercedes said, crossing her arms.

" 'Let My People Go," Puckerman countered.

"Touche´," Schuester agreed. "However, not appropriate for this particular venue. I don't think our final performance should be an act of defiance. Some of you will be back this year, and some of the rest of you will likely get the chance to come back and mentor on occasion. Let's try to keep things positive and save the social commentary for another forum."

"This _is_ our forum, Mr. Schuester." Finn spoke up for the first time. "We might legally be adults now, or almost adults, but let's be honest, here, the only time anyone really listens to us is when we're up there on that stage. Maybe half of them are doing it just to have something to tease us about later, but some of them actually listen. Maybe this is exactly when we _should_ be saying something."

They all turned their heads to Kurt whose phone ringtone went off at that moment. He glanced down, and seeing that it was from Blaine's mom, excused himself, the conversation following him out to the hallway.

"That's a good point, and you may have just given me some fodder to present at the National Show Choir Rules Committee meeting when it convenes here in the fall, but for now..." The rest was muffled by the closed door as he answered his phone.

When he returned a few minutes later, hoping that pressing back the tears with the insides of his wrists had been as successful at keeping his eyesfrom getting red and puffy as keeping the tears at bay, he was glad the song suggestions seemed to have tamed down a bit.

"I suggest we solve two problems with one song," Artie suggested.

"Go on," Mr. Schuester prodded.

"Well, since Blaine can't be here for the practices, why don't we rehash 'Control'? It fits the theme, and if I know Blaine, he will only need one practice to have it back to performance ready. Plus, if you let him know what we're doing, I bet Cooper would help him work on it while he's in L.A."

"Good thinking, little dude." Puck traded him an over the shoulder high five.

"Mr. Schue?" Artie must've noticed Schuester's obvious hesitation. Kurt noticed it, too, but wasn't entirely sure that wasn't due to whhisole world stopping momentarily. It had a way of doing that lately.

"Uh... Kurt?"

Kurt wasn't sure if Schue was deferring to him or if he was enquiring about whether Kurt had something to share with the room. "I'm sorry?" Both a statement and a question to cover all the bases.

"How do you feel about asking Blaine to do 'Control' for the show?" A clarification. If only Kurt could harness some of that clarity for himself.

"Um, no," he finally muttered. "For one, Nationals was Blaine's last big dance number. He's not allowed to do anything that intense anymore. Doctor's orders."

"Dude, I totally forgot about that..." Artie apologized.

Kurt shook his head. "No, that's okay. If you wanted to do the number without the dual lead, I'm sure Blaine would be okay with that."

"Well... that's an option," Mr. Schuester admitted. "What about you, Kurt? Did you have a song in mind?"

"Y-yes and no." Kurt stood and rifled through his bag for the thumb drive he'd put in there that morning in anticipation of his visit to the hospital after glee rehearsal. "I have a song, but it's not for the Fourth." He held up the thumb drive. "May I?"

"Sure, Kurt. You're always welcome to share in this room. You know that," Mr. Schuester said.

Kurt plugged the stick into the sound system and turned to address the room. "First, I need to apologize. I should've shared this last week, but I didn't think it was my place."

"Is this about Blaine?" Rachel prodded. Kurt suspected that Finn had confided in her. He was frankly surprised she'd managed not to say anything until now.

"Yes, it is." Kurt looked down, straightening the points of his vest to avoid being overwhelmed by the weight of the stares, and took a deep, resigned breath before continuing. "Blaine's _not_ in California. He's at Columbus Springs undergoing three weeks of inpatient treatment for bipolar disorder. He's been there since the tenth, and if they get his medications worked out, he should get out on the thirtieth, which is why he can't make any of the practices for the Star Spangled Spectacular. And that's why I don't think he will be able to perform on the Fourth."

"Thank you, Kurt," Mr. Schuester said, patting him on the shoulder. "I'm glad you shared that. I have to admit, I was a little surprised you made up that story about L.A. in the first place."

"Well, I didn't want to," Kurt sighed. "It's just, it all kind of happened so fast, and I realized we never actually discussed how much Blaine wanted everyone to know. I didn't feel comfortable taking that step for him. But we talked about it at visitation last week, and he doesn't want secrets. He just wanted me to make sure you all give him some space."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Rachel asked, and Kurt could sense a one of her typical, half-informed opinions on the verge of spewing over. "In my admittedly very limited experience but notably extensive research on the topic of mental illness, due to the widespread affliction of well-known performers in my industry of choice, I have learned that the most important ingredient in attaining and maintaining good mental health is the establishment of a strong support system. I'm sure we all want to go and show him how much we're here for him. We could do a song! When does he have visitation next?"

"Firstly, there's a difference between establishing a support system and being bombarded with attention you're not in a good position to handle at the moment," Kurt snapped. "That's exactly what he doesn't want or need, and if he's still dealing with side effects like the migraine he had last week when I visited, then it would actually hurt him. Secondly, an important part of his therapy is knowing when to ask for help. He will come to you when he wants your support. Until then, he asks you to respect his privacy. Finally," his voice cracked despite his determination to keep himself together, "we can't go and visit. Because things can be particularly volatile with bipolar until they get it stabilized, his doctor had him restricted to visitation on Saturdays only, and his mom just called to tell me he's not taking visitors today."

"Well, why not?" Rachel pried.

"Yeah," Finn seconded. "He's okay, isn't he? Mom and Burt were planning to go see him this afternoon."

"No, he's not," Kurt choked. "Not today, anyway, but they're watching him very closely and adjusting his medication again so hopefully he can still be discharged next week."

"I can't imagine what he's going through right now," Rachel conceded. For a moment she seemed genuinely sympathetic, but then, "Is it true his father deleted his own Facebook page just to keep Blaine from posting on his wall?"

"Finn!" Kurt growled. "Why didn't you just go straight to Jacob Ben Israel?"

"Wait, that's true?" Puckerman huffed.

"We don't know that his dad did that," Kurt answered. "He's in Syria now, which is a war zone. It's possible it was taken down by one of the security organizations that are set up to keep the volunteers safe over there and to close any potential routes for dangerous hackers. Blaine had posted some videos and live links, which are usually red flags…"

"That's messed up," Mercedes mused, the rest of the group mumbling agreement.

Finn's cheeks reddened as he studied his own fingers in his lap. "I'm sorry," he mumbled with a shrug. "I was just a little freaked out by the whole thing, and you and Blaine were all wrapped up in your 'just being there' for each other. I didn't feel like you wanted to talk to me. I hear things, you know? I didn't know it was supposed to be a secret. And sometimes Rachel's the only one who notices that I care, too."

Kurt closed his eyes and took a deep breath, let it out slowly as he tried to maintain his self-control. Of course Finn hadn't meant anything by talking to Rachel. Rachel on the other hand, really needed to learn when to keep her mouth shut.

"I know, Finn," he sighed. "I'm sorry. We've all been distracted. We shouldn't have ignored you." He raised his voice to make sure everyone got the picture when he said, "But we are not going to sit in here and gossip about Blaine's private life when he's not even here to set the record straight."

"Word," Artie agreed.

He waited for a couple of beats to make sure there were no other questions, but either everyone respected his wishes or they were only interested in gossiping and were waiting for him to leave so they could continue without being scolded.

"Well, anyway, I had planned to sing this song for him when I went to see him today. If it's okay, I'd still like to sing it. Even if he can't hear it, I think I might feel better just saying it." He nodded, and Mr. Schue started the backing track for "Me" by Plumb.

 _I haven't had a chance to sleep_  
 _And when I wake, I wake with your dreams_  
 _I guess, my pillow holds some kind of key_  
 _To your peace, your peace_

It was early in the song, only the first verse, too early already for Kurt's voice to crack with emotion, but it did under the weight of the burden he'd chosen gladly to share, still not sure it would ever emerge out of the black hole gravity speeding it away at the terminal velocity of lightspeed... uncatchable.

 _Me, I wouldn't trade your love_  
 _For all the candy in this great big world_  
 _Me, I feel so crazy blessed and oh, so lucky_  
 _To be the place you go, I'll wash your face_  
 _To make room for all the kisses of tomorrow_  
 _And everyday that I get to be here with you is sweet_

He almost missed a beat, having to swallow hard to keep down the emotion snaking icy tendrils out the corner of his eye and melting down the contour of his cheekbone, a tiny icicle growing beneath the eave of his jaw. Numbered days already, and this one was stolen away.

 _When you need a kiss, oh, don't be afraid_  
'Cause what you'll have is me

It was a lot to promise and possibly not enough.

-#-

Maybe it was too much, too soon. But he'd have done it in a heartbeat before, and if there was anything he wanted, it was for things to go back to the way they were before, even if he wasn't. So, Blaine could take Mr. Schue up on his offer to crash the Sunday dress rehearsal for the New Directions' Fourth of July performance, or he could stay home with his mother hovering over him, and wait for Kurt to finish with said rehearsal so he could come over and hover for a while, too.

Then, eventually he'd bump into the rest of New Directions, Kurt's friends not his, who either wouldn't know what to talk about (Sam, Tina, Artie) or would try to show just how sympathetic they were to his situation by dropping as many mental health catch phrases as they could to show he had an ear to talk to (Rachel, Mr. Schue... okay, mostly Rachel) or would be inadvertently (Puck and Finn) or purposely (Santana) offensive in order to break the tension. Or he could just break the tension for everyone. It was his problem, after all, not theirs.

Besides, like anything else, Blaine preferred to face things on his own terms. He'd spent the last three weeks being blindsided in therapy by engrossing topics like 'unhealthy attachment,' 'separation anxiety,' and 'loss of identity,' not to mention the daily doubler 'socially prescribed perfectionism,' which he totally didn't buy into as a thing, but he wasn't the therapist. What did he know? Apparently, he didn't even know himself, judging by the amount of time everyone spent trying to teach him how to be more self-aware. Which sucked. There wasn't a whole lot about himself that he liked right then, and the more aware he got, the less he liked.

But he was trying. He wanted to get better, so he tried.

At the moment, though, he was still having to take a lot on faith. Like when everyone told him the whole self-awareness thing only really sucked because of how much he'd been avoiding and for how long. They promised facing all of his crap would make it less crappy going forward, as though he couldn't just make more crap. It sounded good, though. It sounded better than a lot of other things they'd addressed in therapy that he was definitely not ready to face outside of therapy just yet. Those things, he most definitely wasn't about to take on faith. Those things made him want to lose faith.

For now, he could sing. He didn't care if part of him was doing it to please Mr. Schue, which was probably something they'd talk about in therapy next time (with the caveat that he recognized his desire to please Mr. Schue and decided he also wanted to do it because he enjoyed singing). Besides, it kinda killed two birds with one stone. Singing always made him feel better, and now he could feel useful as well. He was, after all, going to be one of only five returning seniors in the New Directions next year. At least, he thought so, since no one really knew about Sugar and Joe. Did they even really go to school there?

Anyway, the artist formerly known as Blaine Warbler had been the lead singer of the Warblers (whether that was his true identity or the one that filled the vacancy when he lost his was yet to be worked out in therapy). Alternating leads with the rest of the New Directions was a cake walk in comparison, even if the Warblers had handed him solos, and the New Directions fought for them tooth and nail. No pressure there. None at all.

This wasn't about a solo, anyway.

It was a performance. Blaine was a performer.

He didn't know why he was so nervous.

"Hey, Blaine! Glad you could make it. You're looking great!" Which would have been an innocuous enough greeting if Mr. Schue didn't follow it up with a hug. Since when did Mr. Schue hug him?

"Yyyeah. Thanks for asking me. I'm so glad for the opportunity. I'm still bummed about missing out on all the prep for the show."

"It's summer and not mandatory," Schue excused rubbing the back of his neck, the other hand on his hip, too overtly casual to be successful in his attempt to avoid the elephant in the room. "Did you have trouble finding music?"

"I had the perfect song." Blaine couldn't help but pull his chain a little. "It's by a little indie band that Cooper introduced me to, Louden Swain?"

Mr. Schuester shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"The chorus of the song is perfect. 'You seem like you're kinda strange. Why can't you be a little less insane. I may be crazy. At least I'm medicated.' Perfect right?" He forced a grin, since his real one was taking too long to make it to the front of his emotional queue today and waited for Schue to get the joke.

Instead of laughing, to show he got the joke, or cringing in horror, because really, even Blaine knew that was probably inappropriate and entirely too 'on the head' (that was the point, after all), Mr. Schue nodded in agreement and patted Blaine on the back. "Okay. I assume you brought a backing track."

Taking a beat to decide what it meant that Schue was apparently not tuned in to anything he was saying at the moment, Blaine decided to just let it go with a sigh. "Actually, that song wasn't quite upbeat enough for what we're trying to do here, so I went with 'Unwell' by Matchbox Twenty."

He wasn't sure if Schue looked mildly relieved or if that was just wishful thinking on his part.

"Perfect! I'm sure you'll rock it." He motioned to the portable stereo system on a shelf at the back of the warmup area and the microphone stand. They were in the small outbuilding attached to the back of the band shell in the park where the New Directions would be performing on Wednesday and where they'd be practicing as soon as they arrived that day. It was a little dusty and a lot disorganized, but there was the stereo, an old upright piano, and even some old music stands for last minute practicing. "You can practice back here. Since we're behind the band shell, I don't think the group will be able to hear you until I introduce you, so we won't ruin the surprise." He turned to make his way out to the stage before the rest of the group started to arrive, then spun back around in the doorway. "You didn't tell Kurt, right?"

"No," Blaine assured. "I like the idea of a surprise."

"Great! And Blaine? Thanks again. I know you've had a lot going on lately and..."

"No problem, Mr. Schue." Blaine started fidgeting with the stereo and didn't turn back around until he heard the door shut. This room was too small for that elephant.

-#-

Kurt was trying his best not to look completely put upon, like he'd rather be anywhere but sitting on the stage at Faurot Park. It was true. He would rather be anywhere else. He'd just rather be one other place. Better yet, he wished Blaine was there, because wherever Blaine was, that was where Kurt wanted to be.

Leaning back against the shell of the amphitheater with one knee pulled up to his chest and the other dangling over the edge of the stage, he checked his phone one last time before practice could start. He frowned to find no new messages. Blaine's messages had been cryptic at best since he got his phone back yesterday afternoon. Between Saturday glee practice and Blaine's mom insisting on taking him out to dinner, they'd barely shared a short boyfriend Skype since Blaine was released. And Blaine had nodded off during that, obviously still exhausted and on hospital time.

 **Kurt:** Good morning, love! If you decide you'd like to come watch practice, we'll be here all day. Everyone misses you.

He sent the text even though it wasn't much different than the one straight above it in the conversation that he'd sent two hours ago.

 **Kurt:** More importantly, _I_ miss you. Please call me when you're up. Love you.

He stared at the phone until the screen went black, and then held it in his closed hand as if he could cause it to vibrate by force of will alone. By then, the rest of the group had arrived and were in various postures of aloof boredom all across the stage, everyone already starting to melt in the early July humidity. Kurt wondered if he was the only one wondering how they were supposed to perform on the stage as it was set up. With the band set up in the back and a row of mic stands set up along the front, there didn't seem to be a whole lot of stage left for dancing.

Right about then, Mr. Schuester's car pulled into the parking lot, and he unloaded a cooler out of the back, filling it with ice and bottled water before wheeling it down the sidewalk to the stage.

"Thank you, everyone for sacrificing your Sunday to rehearse. It's going to be a hot one today, so I brought water. Stay hydrated! I'm treating everyone to ice cream after practice, so let's try to make the best of a less than ideal situation in this heat."

"Speaking of less than ideal," Kurt segued, "how exactly are we supposed to fit our numbers onto this stage? Wouldn't the main stage be more appropriate?"

Mr. Schue put his hands on his hips, dropping his gaze to the ground with pursed lips as he nodded. "It would, but the concert band is a much larger group than we are, and since we're performing right before them, the organizers have moved us here so the band would have more time to set up."

"Doesn't that kind of wreck our whole set?" Puck asked, already stripping down to just his wife beater undershirt.

"It does present a challenge," Schue acknowledged, "but I'm already on it." He pushed up his shirt sleeves and motioned to the row of mic stands at the front of the stage. "Obviously, Mike, Brittany, and Santana will still dance, but to avoid too much traffic in such a tight space, the rest of us are going to use these."

"So we're just going to stand there and sing?" Rachel protested. "Isn't that going to be kind of boring?" This from the girl who did just that, and at a school _dance_ of all places, Kurt snickered to himself remembering her contribution to Glee Does Prom from two years ago.

"Yeah," Finn agreed. "We all picked pretty upbeat numbers. I kinda want to move."

Everyone mumbled agreement before Schue raised his hand. "Which is why we're all going to learn how to handle a mic stand like the rock stars I know you are. And to show you how it's done, I've got a special guest lined up to give us a crash tutorial. He's without a doubt one of the best mic handlers I've ever had the opportunity to work with." He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, walking to the back of the stage and knocking on the door. "So, if you'd all have a seat in the front row..."

Not interested in the conversation at the least, Kurt's glance was still down at his lifeless phone as he slid off the stage and slumped onto a bench seat, arms and legs both crossed in silent protest. The more new choreography they had to learn, the longer this was going to take, and the longer he had to wait to see Blaine. No amount of singing and dancing was going to make this day better.

The rest of the group looked around at each other when the band started playing the opening bars of Matchbox Twenty's "Unwell," and still no one had materialized to sing it.

Twenty seconds in, the backstage door opened to reveal pitch darkness on the other side, and then...

 _All day staring at the ceiling_  
 _Making friends with shadows on my wall_

Kurt knew that voice. He sat up stick-straight, dropping his phone to the pavement in the process, as Blaine stepped out of the darkness and strolled to the lone mic stand at center stage.

 _All night hearing voices telling me_  
 _That I should get some sleep_  
 _Because tomorrow might be good for something_

Blaine fixed the wireless microphone to the stand with the practiced dexterity he'd no doubt been perfecting since he could walk. Lips nearly touching the metal windscreen, he cupped both his hands around the housing, tipping the whole stand toward him as his knees pinched together, pigeon toeing and rising up onto the balls of his feet.

 _Hold on_  
 _Feeling like I'm headed for a breakdown_  
 _And I don't know why_

He punctuated 'hold on' and the brief pause before 'breakdown' with what Kurt liked to think of as a cross between a Michael Jackson pelvic thrust and a crucified Jesus. The mic stand in his right hand and the microphone in his left, he flung his arms wide while bouncing up on his toes and dropping his chin to his chest.

With the stand tilted all the way out to his right, Blaine held it out like a dance partner he'd just spun out to the end of his arm span. The rest of his body bounced with the rising energy of the song as it moved into the chorus.

 _But I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell_  
 _I know right now you can't tell_  
 _But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see_  
 _A different side of me_

Blaine snaked his forearm around the pole, first around the front and then the back of his hand so the whole stand started to spin and then rocked it around on its base so it started a slow walking circle with the top of the pole in a wider arc than the bottom. As the moving radius of the circle rolled back toward him, he bent forward and slid underneath it, doing a wave from his right hand fingertips through his arms, over his back and shoulders to his left hand fingertips. It looked like the mic stand rolled over his body instead of just continuing on its arc while he danced underneath it and caught it on the other side. The move ended in a mirror image of where he started, the mic and stand in opposite hands.

 _I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired_  
 _I know right now you don't care_  
 _But soon enough you're gonna think of me_  
 _And how I used to be, me_

The chorus concluded with a repeat of the choreography going in the opposite direction, but by then, Kurt had stopped paying attention to the dancing. He already knew Blaine was master of the mic stand and owning the stage. This performance had nothing at all to do with preparing for the show. This was about Blaine doing what he needed to do to move forward, and whether it was him on that stage or just who he needed to be today, he was here and trying.

Kurt knew he must be terrified. He also knew why Blaine hadn't mentioned it or responded to any of the texts Kurt had sent him that morning, but it twisted his stomach to think of Blaine sitting backstage by himself all morning just to preserve the element of surprise. Had Kurt known, he'd have sent a more appropriate text.

Brushing the pavement grit off carefully so as not to scratch his screen, he sent the text he wished he'd sent earlier.

 **Kurt:** COURAGE.

I _'m talking to myself in public_  
 _Dodging glances on the train_  
 _And I know, I know they've all been talking about me_  
 _I can hear them whisper_  
 _And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me_  
 _Out of all the hours thinking_  
 _Somehow I've lost my mind_

And then another because he couldn't wait for the song to end.

 _I've been talking in my sleep_  
 _Pretty soon they'll come to get me_  
 _Yeah, they're taking me away_

 **Kurt:** I'm so, so proud of you.

Maybe a little unwell. True. But Blaine wasn't alone, which became abundantly clear as soon as the music faded and the rest of New Directions jumped to their feet and stormed the stage. The mic stand didn't withstand the onslaught and toppled over with a clatter. Finn and Puck both patted Blaine on the back hard enough to stagger him sideways.

"Dude, good to have you back," Puck grinned.

"You had us all worried for a while there," Finn confessed, trading an elbow bump while Puck high fived. Sandwiched between the two without enough hands to go around, Blaine sort of squirted forward directly into Brittany who wrapped herself around him and all but climbed on his back.

"Uh, hi? Brittany?" Blaine stammered, twisting his neck one direction and then the other to try and make eye contact.

"Don't mind me," she explained. "I'm a thunder shirt."

A collective, "Huh?"

"Gentle compression acts like a full body hug and has been shown to reduce anxiety in lab animals," she explained.

"Then it must for surely work on hobbits," Santana smirked as she crossed her arms over herself, hip cocked, as far in Blaine's personal space as she could possibly get without prying Brittany off. "So, half pint," she teased, "Since there are no guys in white suits sneaking through the bushes, I'm assuming they let you out through the front door. So tell me, after all that time in the cave, are you a Sméagol or a Gollum?"

Blaine cleared his throat and stood up straighter as Brittany finally relented and slid to the ground, but he still had to tilt his head up in order to look Santana directly in the eye. "Um? I don't know?" He obviously didn't know what she was getting at.

"That depends," Santana shrugged. "Do you now, or have you ever, in the throes of baby gay passion, ever referred to Lady Hummel over there as 'My Precioussssss,?"

Taken aback, Blaine grimaced, "What? No? That's… just NO."

Grinning, Santana unfolded her arms, "Well, then, you're just Sméagol to me," she said. Turning to the rest of the group, she raised her voice, "And anyone who says otherwise is going to have to deal with Auntie Snix, is that clear?"

For a second a shadow passed over Blaine's expression that Kurt couldn't quite read, but before Kurt could make his way through the crowd, Blaine had Santana wrapped up in an enthusiastic glomp not dissimilar from the one Brittany had just laid on him.

He released her just as quickly and stepped back scrubbing at the back of his neck with a self-consciously murmured, "Thank you, Santana."

She just nodded with a slow blink to show no thanks was necessary, unwilling to actually drop her tough girl act to hug him back in front of God and everyone.

"No, I mean it," he explained. "My head is all kind of stuffed with foam right now, and I'm not sure I've had a genuine emotion in at least four days," he said flatly. "But… I felt that."

Obviously touched, she frowned, then broke throwing her arms wide. "Well, hell." The facade dropped and she hugged him quickly, the hug equivalent of a peck on the cheek, then hid behind Brittany before anyone could see the blush creeping up her cheek.

"Awwww."

Kurt had a tough time breaking through the group hug that followed, but that was okay. This was one time he was willing to share.

-#-

Blaine hadn't been exaggerating. He did feel like his head was full of foam. If anything, he'd been understating just a little, but the thrum wasn't just gone from his head. It was just gone, like his whole body was a sponge and everything he felt wrung out over a bucket and tossed out, leaving him to fill up on nothing. Dead air.

He'd thought maybe it was just at home, the way his mom tiptoed around him, muffled everything she said and did through a filter of carefully weighed circumstances and outcomes to make sure to toss the smallest pebble. That's just what she did, what she'd always done, at least, when she didn't just disappear. Like being there but only in silhouette was better than being a full color promise that never quite came to fruition.

It wasn't just at home, though. It wasn't just sitting in silence, or staring at the television with the volume turned up and a stereo blaring in the next room. It just was, and he knew that now, because of the song. He'd spent hours picking the perfect song, analyzing the lyrics, the tone, the rhythm and sway of it and delivered it exactly the way he planned, every note, every move, every expression, even the twinkle in his eye perfection, a flawless performance.

All of it with no reverb.

Nothing.

Singing into dead air or singing out of it felt pretty much the same. At least he could still act his ass off when it mattered. And tomorrow they'd talk about it in therapy, how it was normal and temporary and all a part of the process of being okay.

Maybe if they spent enough time talking about the amount of time he spent moving around the stale air inside of him without any cool breeze to help the process, they wouldn't get around to addressing the one thing that still hurt.

 **Kurt:** Missed you at the ice cream social. :( They had blueberry cheesecake and Reese's peanut butter cup. I got a pint of each to go. Movie night? Popcorn and ice cream are on me. We've got the whole house to ourselves.

Or, it didn't hurt yet, but only because that band-aid hadn't quite been pulled off. He was still picking at the edges, yanking out the hairs one follicle at a time, not entirely convinced that wound could heal in the open air. Or maybe he didn't want it to heal. At least if it was covered, he couldn't keep pouring salt into it.

 **Kurt:** Or we could look at fabric swatches for the loft apartment and sing along to the "Chess" soundtrack.

 **Kurt:** Ooh! "Spring Awakening!"

"Aren't you going to answer him?" Cooper had been watching him read the texts and drop the phone back in his lap all afternoon.

Blaine rubbed the back of his neck, opposite hand on his elbow as though he couldn't raise that arm high enough despite his shoulders and head being perpetually slumped forward. "I'm working up to it."

"You two usually have like five conversations going at once," Cooper sniggered. "I've never known either of you to be at a loss for words." He flopped down on the couch next to Blaine and patted him on the knee. "Is this about that thing we talked about with your therapist?"

"Don't you mean that thing that you and mom brought up that is suddenly the root of all my problems?" Blaine knew there should be more heat in his voice, but he could barely bring it up to a low simmer.

"C'mon, Squeak. It is not the root of all your problems. I thought we cleared that up. It's just preventing you from getting better."

Blaine's phone pinged again.

 **Kurt:** Seriously, though. Is your phone broken? We don't have to do anything. I could come to you. We can just feed each other ice cream and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling. I really, really miss you.

Cooper reached over and nudged the phone closer to Blaine's hand. "Answer him."

Blaine furrowed his brow. "Maybe I'm just practicing. Isn't this what you wanted?"

"No!" Cooper shifted around in his seat to face him, and for a second Blaine thought he was going to take him by the shoulders and give him a solid shake. Luckily, he just took a firm hold of one bicep, enough to keep Blaine from turning away. "This is exactly what we don't want, Blainey, you closed off and in denial about what you need to do for yourself. We want to get you happy and whole again."

"By cutting out my own heart!" And there it was, exactly one exclamation point worth of spark, one more hair ripped out by the root, band-aid still firmly in place.

"We want you to take a step back so you don't end up lost again like you were when..." Cooper stopped abruptly, throat still working but lips sealed tight.

"You can say, 'Dad,' you know." Blaine yanked his arm away from Cooper just enough to fold them tightly across his chest. "If you want to avoid 'triggering,' me," and yes, he did just use air quotes, "by avoiding every single reference to our father, then we should probably move out of his house and not sit on his couch and watch his T.V. while the portrait of our perfect patriarchal American family hangs over the mantle." He slumped back into the couch. "Besides, Kurt is not my Dad replacement."

"That's not exactly..."

"That's sick."

"And if you were healthy, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Blaine's phone went off again where it was sandwiched half stuffed down between Blaine's thigh and the arm of the couch, and this time Cooper picked it up.

 **Kurt:** Blaine, I need you to please answer me.

"Fine," Cooper stated, the challenge clear in the tone of his voice, "then answer him. If you're really committed to getting better, then answer him. Only you have to tell him."

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him what _you_ need, Blainey. You know what that is. You just have to want it as much as you need it- enough to ask for it." He dropped the phone on the ledge of Blaine's arms where they were crossed over his chest. "Answer him."

Blaine didn't know why he had to clear his throat in order to answer a text message, but something was caught there, thick as tar. So, he cleared it and punched out a reply, dropped the phone back in his lap where he knew Cooper could see it and turned his head away.

 **Blaine:** I'm on my way.

"Blaine..." Disappointment was thick in his voice.

Blaine snatched his phone and lurched to stand. "Don't wait up."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

Blaine didn't have an answer for that. He just knew Kurt made him thrum again, kept him in tune. If that's what he needed, he wasn't currently high minded enough to know if that was right or wrong, just aware enough to know it could go either way.

-#-

Kurt had already popped two giant bowls of popcorn, set out glasses and coasters for the Diet Coke he had in the refrigerator, checked the ice drawer to make sure it hadn't randomly stopped working, as it was prone to do, and fanned out a half dozen movie options on the coffee table, and Blaine had only replied fifteen minutes ago to say he was coming over. He wasn't sure what he expected to transpire or even what he wanted to happen, but he hadn't been alone with Blaine outside of his hospital room in over three weeks and he'd just spent more than half his day worrying himself sick over the increasing number of shakily typed, unanswered texts daisy chaining together on his side of their phone conversation.

Every nerve in his body twanged with what he was sure was ninety percent nervous energy and at most ten percent sexual frustration. If he didn't complete as many menial tasks as possible before Blaine got there, the ninety percent was quite possibly going to take on the task of trying to relieve the ten percent, and he was absolutely not going to molest his gorgeous but somewhat fragile boyfriend the second he stepped through the door. He needed to be able to step back and take stock of the situation with a clear head and (oh!) no popcorn hulls between his teeth, which was why there were also two different flavors of flossers on the counter in the bathroom.

More options. They needed more options. Blaine should be able to come over fully aware that Finn, Burt, and Carole were all out of the house for the night and not feel any pressure to do anything. Kurt would never presume... Rummy! He opened the game chest to find a deck of cards and found a cribbage board and a stack of board games, of which at least half were suitable to play with two players or less. And then there was the diorama of the Bushwick loft he'd built with his three extra weeks of arts and crafts time, which he set out on the kitchen island next to his big book of fabric swatches.

Crap! The throw pillows were still stacked up in the corner of the living room where they'd ended up when he vacuumed the couch earlier. Usually he only took them off when Blaine came over if he anticipated needing more room on the couch. And Blaine knew he did that. In fact, he'd learned it from Blaine. If Blaine saw the pile of haphazardly thrown throw pillows, he would assume that Kurt was presuming, and Kurt _wasn't_ presuming. Not at all. But if he put the pillows back, would Blaine assume that Kurt didn't want...? Because he did want, but only if Blaine wanted it first, and only if...

Oh crap! The knock on the door came while he was still sorting the pillows by size, pattern, and texture, so not only were they not where they belonged nor piled inconspicuously in the corner, they were very obviously stacked up in the recliners and on the end of the couch so there was no place else to sit except the very cozy love seat. So much for subtlety.

The front door clicked open, and Blaine pushed in. It wasn't normal for Blaine to enter without being invited in. His sudden intrusion had Kurt's heart lodged under his hyoid, pounding hard enough to rattle his back teeth, and the breath through his sinuses felt about ten degrees hotter and thicker than it had a few seconds ago.

Blaine's shoulders heaved up and down with the same rapid tempo as Kurt's, a flush on his cheeks several shades deeper than what Kurt would expect from the short walk up the driveway and segregated to the highest points of his cheekbones and over the pulse points in his neck.

"You said we had the house to ourselves, and I didn't see any cars in the driveway, so..."

"It's... it's okay," Kurt stuttered, flustered more than he could remember being since he'd gone looking for Blaine after opening night of West Side Story. There was something darker in Blaine's eyes now, something a little deeper with a gravitational field all its own. Only startled confusion kept Kurt back, hands still attempting to fluff the throw pillow despite being clenched entirely too tightly to do anything except smash it down further.

It was futile, anyway. As soon as he slid around the recliner under the pretense of shutting and locking the door, he and the pillow were crushed into the back of said door, and the pillow wasn't the only thing with all the air squeezed out of it.

"Is this?"

Kurt's mind was too shorted out from Blaine's hot breath panting into his ear to register what Blaine was asking, but the throw caught between them provided buffer for Kurt to get his senses back enough to answer.

"Yes! I mean, more than okay." His fingers flailed momentarily, dropping the pillow before digging into Blaine's hips, thumbs already working to pull the front of his polo out of his waistband and expose the stretched skin underneath.

Teeth on his collarbone and fingers tight in the hair at the nape of his neck, Kurt gasped, hands sliding up under Blaine's shirt to the swell beneath his ribcage, bending and molding them together into the single trunk of a wind-swayed tree. Scrape and thrust, grip and rut. It was lips and day old stubble, July heat and boiling blood, stewed together with panting breath and the steadily dropping pressure of bone deep yearning that picked them up and dropped them together into the vortex.

Inside the funnel, the whorl of a single fingertip etched and pocked with the spiritual force of a hail stone, sudden and sharp then placid and liquid, a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

The storm burgeoned from there, Kurt all lightning and thunder, Blaine the darkness that split and then collapsed in around him. It swallowed them both, saturated breaths like ozone bonded to sulfur, at once dissolving and melding. Summer slick skin slid frictionless in the exposed plains between rucked up shirts and constraining belts, Blaine arched up on his toes and Kurt bent in the knee, legs coiled within and without. Thighs chafed where they twined together, inseam to outseam and inseam to inseam, and the storm door rattled in its frame.

It ended up not mattering at all where the stupid throw pillows ended up, because they never made it to the couch. Instead the storm path blew through the foyer and around the corner, a swirling updraft that swept them up the stairs. Caught at the edge of the squall line, Kurt was marked before they even tipped onto the bed, Blaine's mouth a force of nature all its own, devouring the rolling landscape of straining sinewy throat and angular collarbone, quivering deltoid to ticklish ear.

Normally he'd protest, 'not too much,' 'not there where everyone will see,' but now he didn't care, let his head fall back, an offering. His fingers wended buttonholes and beltloops, fingernails scraping inside zipper plackets, feeling for the pulls until all had fallen away but damp cotton and overtaxed elastic. The whole mess tangled in their feet and hobbled them together at the same moment their fingers laced together, arms stretching up and over so there was nothing left to press them apart except the natural spinning of the earth.

Scrabble and climb, the bedspread rucked up and finally slid off, sheets wadding in the arch of back and shoulder, behind the crooks of knees. Swollen lips thirsted into divots and over peaks, stretched over and around, shielding teeth and loosing tongue. The crinkle of foil and squelch of lube got lost in the perfect storm of sighing, moaning, slowly dying, the creak of a spring, bang of a headboard, a breaking, sobbing breath.

And beneath the cacophony a wavering tremolo, "Sorry. Sorry. So, so sorry."

"Blaine?"

As suddenly as it had dropped, the funnel ascended, and in the freefall, silence. Blaine's eyes were wide, liquid and deep when he started to fall, a triplet heartbeat palpable through abruptly stilled chests. The last breath was first held and then swallowed, reverie and wonder as a slick spread between them without moan or shudder.

"I love you."

"So much."

Kurt was nearly asleep, the mark on his throat throbbing and Blaine snuffling softly in his arms, when he remembered the apology, soft as a whisper, urgent as a prayer, the ' _sorry, sorry, sorry_ ,' that seemed to yearn for and yet preclude innocence.

His boiling blood had never chilled so quickly.

When morning came, his bed was as cold as his blood. He was marked, red and blue over porcelain white, and though it was the Fourth of July, he didn't feel independent so much as just alone.

-TBC

 **AN:** I've been posting twice a week, but since this chapter was over 11000 words, I feel like this is the only update for this week. Editing takes away from the time I spend writing, and I still have three chapters to write. Also, the more I post, the more I obsessively check my inbox, which is an unhealthy pattern of mine that I have struggled with in the past, and I don't want to have to give up writing to break it. Thank you all so much for reading.


	10. Day One

**AN** : Thanks everyone again for reading. For flowerhere, I agree that it would be wrong of Kurt to mention Blaine's illness without discussing it with Blaine, so I made sure that he had Blaine's permission. I actually feel like, after what he's said about wishing he hadn't run away in the past, that he would want to face this head on and not keep secrets. That being said, he did ask for some privacy and addressed the group himself on his own terms when he felt he was ready. As for Mr. Schue, well, he's never been incredibly couth. He did kind of give Miss Pillsbury crap in "Born This Way" for not embracing her OCD. In this story, anyway, bringing mental illness out in the open is going to be a kind of second story/recurring theme, so I hope to do it tastefully and that you will continue to enjoy it.

 **AN:** While I'm pretty sure most of you already know what's coming, I fully expect some of you to hate me by the end of this chapter. That being said, I wrote this back around Easter and am just now re-reading it for the first time since, and I'm really happy with how this turned out. So, I hope you can all enjoy it. Sue is hard to write!

"Mr. Schuester?"

"Kurt!" Mr. Schue glanced over his shoulder then back at the clipboard in his hand as he stood, pen in hand, to check off each item from the list as he surveyed the pile of equipment that needed to be hauled out to the park. "I thought you'd all be meeting me at the venue."

Kurt slunk in, suddenly self-conscious, and fidgeted with his red ascot where it was fixed above the china collared white Henley they were all wearing for the performance. His other hand nervously picking at the button holding up the rolled up cuff of his opposite sleeve. Once he donned the blue shorts, he was well aware that he'd look like Fred from Scooby Doo, but that couldn't be helped. "I thought you might need help with some of the equipment, and I have a lot of room in my car..."

Or he really just needed to talk.

Apparently not finding what he was looking for, Will cast a searching glare to the shelf in the corner before strolling over and grabbing a rolled up extension cord and a box of other miscellaneous connectors. "I actually had it covered, but more hands makes lighter work, so I definitely won't turn down the offer. You wanna grab that masking tape?"

Kurt nodded and retrieved the roll of painter's tape they used to mark 'places' on the stage. He couldn't help tipping his head slightly to the side when he crossed into Schuester's line of sight to set it down, pretended to push aside a strand of hair to camouflage the movement. "And I actually wanted to discuss a little... wardrobe situation I'm having."

Mr. Schuester pulled his eyes off the clipboard and fully addressed Kurt for the first time. "I like the color, but it's really too hot for that ascot, don't you think?"

"Probably," Kurt admitted, then reached up to undo the knot at his throat, "but it's also too hot for concealer." He noted the sharp intake of breath when the bruise on his throat was finally revealed and couldn't miss the slightly uncomfortable grimace on Mr. Schue's face when he slipped a finger into the collar of Kurt's shirt to slide it back and get a better assessment of the damage before drawing away again like he'd been burned. "I tried to cover it with makeup, but it's already melted off twice. I just barely managed to keep it from staining my shirt, and I was using the good stuff I bought when we did 'Rocky Horror Picture Show.'"

"Umm..."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Schue. I really am. We're usually so careful." They were. Blaine had never not asked for permission before marking Kurt, always aware and respectful of Kurt's limits when it came to his skin and his privacy, but last night he hadn't asked. Kurt wouldn't have denied him if he had. In fact, he'd offered, just not in so many (or any) words, willing more than he could say to be wanted, to be claimed, to be Blaine's. This wasn't about any personal shame or self-consciousness. "I'm actually kind of okay with it. I mean, Santana's not going to pull any punches, and Finn's probably going to be redder than this scarf if he sees it, but I'm not embarrassed or anything."

"So, you're worried it might be inappropriate, because of the show?" Schue was obviously fishing, squirming like the proverbial worm on the hook in his effort to figure out exactly why Kurt was putting him on the spot the way he was.

"No, it's not that, either." The thought had crossed Kurt's mind, but only in passing. The show was actually the farthest thing from it at the moment, but it did give him an excuse to talk to Mr. Schuester, and with his Dad just getting off a plane and spending all morning emceeing the parade, he didn't really know who else to talk to. "I just sort of don't really want… Blaine to see it."

Mr. Schuester blinked, eyes wide as if he didn't know how to respond. "I...I'm pretty sure he's seen it," he ventured, scrubbing at the back of his neck. Then he seemed to have an idea and jerked back a step, "U-unless i-it wasn't..."

"Oh! No! Mr. Schue, it was definitely Blaine. There's no one else. No, Blaine's the-the only one, like... ever..."

Mr. Schuester held up his hand, bowing his head as he wrapped his other arm across his chest. "That's... enough, Kurt. I really don't need to know more than that." Not raising his head up from where it was tipped nearly chin to chest, he rolled just his eyes up to meet Kurt's. "So, before you volunteer something that's going to scar us both for life, I'm just going to come out and ask. Kurt, why don't you want Blaine to see..." he gestured to Kurt's neck, "that, when he's the one who put it there in the first place? I mean, it's been awhile since I was your age, but usually when someone does... that... in a conspicuous place, isn't it because they _want_ to see it?" As soon as he said it, the hand behind his neck slid around and over his entire mouth and chin, and he blinked at Kurt expectantly, almost as if he was afraid of the answer.

"That's the thing, I..." Kurt bit his lip, "I don't think he really knew what he was doing." And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Not that Blaine wasn't present the night before, he was, but that he'd been so much... _more_ than usual, somehow lacking all of the trappings and bindings that made him safe and familiar, his naked soul bleeding out into the sheets and seeping into Kurt's pores in a way he'd never let himself before.

Mr. Schuester uncurled, a hand going Kurt's elbow. "Wait, Kurt. Are you saying he might have been... impaired... when you...? Because, if that's the case, then there are some serious moral implications. A-are you okay? Is he?"

"That's just it! I don't know!" Even hours later, Kurt couldn't still the tremor that quaked up his spine at the memory, the quiet awe and reverie of being simultaneously blessed and cursed, redeemed and condemned. He'd never been so awesomely terrified, exposed and wrapped up in everything and nothing. And while Kurt could appreciate the delicious paradox of it, the perfect literary quality of it, he wasn't sure that Blaine could. Not now.

"Kurt..."

"I'm fine. I was fine the whole time." A long beat, because he hadn't really considered what he was trying to say, didn't really have words to describe the apprehension clawing at the base of his skull. "It was amazing. It's always amazing, but... it was really intense, and we didn't talk like, at all, except..." He broke off, choked up as the ghost of the night before passed through him. "I thought it was just because we hadn't really been alone together for a while, you know, but then he started apologizing. And it was like he didn't know he was saying it." He grabbed his elbows. "This is something he would never do, not without asking me if it was okay. And don't get me wrong, if he had asked, I would have totally been okay with it. I _am_ okay with it..."

"But you think maybe he was a little out of control and might feel like he took advantage."

"I should have asked if _he_ was okay with it. I should've just asked if he was okay at all. He beats himself up about everything, Mr. Schue. Especially now. He thinks everything he does or wants is tainted somehow, because everyone keeps telling him he's sick. He doesn't trust himself. He needs me, and if I had been thinking clearly, I would have stopped him, taken a step back. I should have, but I-" He cleared his throat, face burning. "I really didn't want him to." He hadn't realized how close he was to tears until he blinked and the world swam out of focus. Another blink cleared it like a windshield wiper as a heavy drop shed onto his eyelash, and he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. "I don't know what I'm doing. I feel like I let him down, Mr. Schue."

Mr. Schuester dragged the piano bench over between them and straddled the end of it. "Have a seat, Kurt."

He did, more of a slow motion collapse, side on to Mr. Schue, his hands pressed flat together between his thighs.

Leaning forward slightly, hands folded together Mr. Schuester pumped the air once as he tried to force his thoughts in order, obviously trying to avoid saying the wrong thing. "Look, I'm not going to pretend that I know exactly what you're going through, or what the right answer is in your particular situation, but I do have a pretty good idea how you feel. It's got to be one of the worst feelings in the world to know someone you love is scared and hurting and not know what you can do to make it better for them. I know you'd trade places with Blaine, if you could."

"Anything," Kurt stammered. "I'd do anything."

"I know you would," Schue granted, "but let me tell you what you can't do. You can't stop bad days from happening, and you cannot be someone else's..." he paused, obviously searching for the correct word, "barometer of what is and isn't okay for them. They have to be able to ask themselves those questions and deal with that uncertainty on their own. You have to be you and never change that, so you don't become another question they have to answer. If they make mistakes or bad decisions, you can't stop that, but you _can_ be there to deal with the consequences."

"I know that. I mean, on some level I do, I think. But I just feel so helpless!"

"I know you do."

"No! You don't!" Kurt brushed another rogue tear out of his lashes before it could fall. "From the very first moment I met him, Blaine always seemed to be the one with the answers. Whether they were the right answers or not, he always knew what to say to make me feel better. He made me braver. And I don't know how to be that for him. I feel like I keep dropping the ball and letting him down."

"Kurt, I don't remember where I heard it or who said it, but someone once said, 'the bravest thing anyone can do is ask for help.'" Bracing his hands on his thighs, he straightened up with a long-drawn inhale. "If you want to help Blaine the way he helped you, to feel braver, then maybe what you need to do isn't to sit around beating yourself up over how to help him but just to be someone he knows he can rely on when he's ready to ask for it."

Kurt felt his face crumpling before he realized he was leaning forward, arms out. "Thank you, Mr. Schuester," he sniffed into the shoulder of Will's shirt.

"You're welcome." With a pat, he added, "And in the meantime, let's see if we can't scare up a few more red scarves. It is one of our school colors, so I wouldn't be surprised if we don't have some around here somewhere. As long as we find enough for at least the girls, we can keep some semblance of uniformity in our costumes and maybe people won't ask too many questions. Deal?"

"Deal," Kurt nodded, already rising to go in search of red scarves.

"And Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

"Blaine's a good kid. He's smart, and he's extraordinarily lucky to have you in his corner. He's going to be okay."

Kurt wanted to believe that, but he was taking a lot on faith these days. "I don't want him to be just okay, though," he confessed. "I want him to be..." he paused because, 'good, great, successful, amazing,' all came to mind but didn't begin to scratch the surface. He wanted all of those things and more for Blaine; he wanted him to be, "Happy. I want him to be so happy."

Schue patted Kurt on the shoulder. "Baby steps, Kurt. He'll get there again. And I'm going to keep an eye on him for you while you're in New York being awesome."

Kurt hugged Schue one more time, this time sheepishly and without looking him in the eye. He hadn't realized how much he needed to hear that. He left with a part of the weight at least shifted if not lifted entirely off his shoulders. All he'd needed to do was ask for help, and it was given.

Who knew?

-#-

Kurt was feeling a little better, lighter on his feet than he had since waking up that morning to find Blaine's scribbled note about needing to go home for his meds. Of course, he'd be feeling a lot better just as soon as Blaine showed up and he could see for himself that everything was okay between them. They didn't technically have to be at the park until later that afternoon, but as a Congressman, Kurt's dad was sort of the local celebrity of the day. Besides emceeing the parade, Burt judged the pie eating contest and ordered his first 'green' taco ever after cutting the ribbon at the inauguration of Lima's first ever taco truck.

The government called the days when Congress was in session but not actually meeting district work days. The general public called them vacation days. Really, they were the handshaking and baby kissing part of any political career. Some would say that's where they earned their $175,000 a year salary, where they got a feel for the constituents so they could vote accordingly during the days they actually did discuss the agenda. There were fifty-five or so such days in a given year, not including weekends, usually around Federal holidays and the end of summer or early fall. Burt spent most of his taking care of business at the tire shop while Kurt and Finn were both still in school but would probably spend a little more time out of town now. This was a national holiday, though, so he could kind of kill two birds with one stone, be at home and a politician at the same time. Kurt was there for moral support and for photo opportunities, because family was very important to the constituents.

Besides, it kept him busy in some manner that didn't involve checking his phone every fifteen seconds, which is exactly what he was doing when his dad set his taco down, quirked an eyebrow at him and tried to give Kurt a heart condition of his own.

"So, is the Scooby Doo look trending this summer, or did you and Blaine get a little carried away with the catching up last night?"

Kurt was sure his face was as red as the scarf as he narrowly avoided spitting diet Coke out of his nose. His dad patted him on the back with a low chuckle as he gagged and wiped at his eyes.

"Whoa, didn't mean to get you all choked up there, buddy."

"H-how did you know?" Running his finger under the fabric of the scarf, he confirmed that it was still firmly in place.

"Actually, I just took a stab in the dark. You've been staring off into space and checking your phone like you've got a nervous tick or something. I was trying to get a rise out of you. From your reaction, I guess I hit the nail on the head. You got somethin' you wanna talk about, there, kiddo?"

"Dad! Oh my god, No! Definitely not."

"C'mon, kid. You think I didn't know you and Blaine were..."

"Dad!"

"Hell, I've known since I went over to Blaine's to tell him about your NYADA finalist letter. I spent the afternoon hanging out with him and doing sudoku. Imagine my surprise when I was looking for a pen and opened up that drawer in the nightstand..."

"Oh my god, I'm going to die if you don't stop right now."

His dad grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a shake, laughing heartily. "Take it easy, kid. I'm not mad, just keeping you honest. And you're right. It's none of my business. I know you two will take care of each other. Speaking of...where's Blaine? He's coming to the show, right?"

Clearing his throat, Kurt shook off his momentary mortification to nod. "Yeah. He's coming to watch for moral support and because he helped with the choreography. Mr. Schue offered him a solo if he could prepare something, but he's not quite ready to jump back into that, yet. He should be here soon."

Burt gave a thoughtful chin nod, the corners of his mouth turning down. "And how is he?"

"Since getting out of the hospital, you mean." It was a statement. Just buying time to decide how much he wanted to reveal. He'd already had one heart-to-heart that day and didn't know if he was entirely recovered from that one. "Better, I think. It's kind of hard to say, really. He's been sort of... distant, I guess. I can't tell if it's because his mom and Cooper are constantly hovering around or if he's just needs some time. I'm trying to give him space, but it's honestly killing me."

"Well, it's understandable if he needs space right now. I'm glad you're respecting that."

"But I leave for New York in just over a month, you know? I feel kind of robbed." He leaned his head on his dad's shoulder. "Does that make me a terrible person?"

"No." Burt threw his arm around Kurt's shoulder. "Just the opposite. It means you're a sweet, loving kid who's learning one of the tougher things in life."

"Which is?"

"Which is that sometimes the right thing to do is also the hardest thing to do, but I'm proud of you for trying to put aside your own wants to try to do that right thing. Pretty soon, I'm not going to be able to call you 'bud' or 'kiddo' anymore."

"Just don't default to 'dude.' I've been trying to break Finn of that forever."

"What would you suggest?"

Kurt pondered, a smirk working up the side of his face. "I could live with 'sir.'"

"Oh, Sir Kurt Hummel," Burt huffed. "Is the Queen aware?"

"No, but she will be."

Nodding, Burt turned to look his son in the eye. "And you know what?"

"What?"

"I really believe she will. If she lives long enough."

He was in the middle of giving his dad a giant hug and trying really hard not to cry again, when he spotted Blaine coming up the fairway toward them. "Uh! Blaine!" He leapt up, waving.

"Well, don't jump around like a crazy fool." Burt patted him on the back and gave him a little shove. "Go get your man. I think the mayor is beckoning me again. Carole and I will catch your show."

"Thanks, Dad. I love you."

"Love you, too. And tell Blaine we said 'hi'."

"Will do."

"Get outta here, now. Go!"

-#-

Day one was a practically perfect day. Blaine couldn't have complained. Not really. He had no reason to. Well, not many. The only thing not to love about it hadn't even happened yet. Until then? Best day ever.

It started with Blaine wrapped up in Kurt, sated, loose, and spent in a way that felt earned, unlike the bone weary, waterlogged exhaustion he'd been forced to drag for far too long. He was tired but wrung out in a good way-lighter. He even had a song in his heart.

In therapy, he sometimes found it difficult to say exactly what he was thinking or feeling. Words sometimes had double meanings the way they did in the confusing poetry they made him read in AP English, and the clever twists of phrase were really only clever if they somehow came out true. Maybe it wasn't words he had trouble finding. Maybe it was truth. He didn't know. What he did know was that sometimes when he couldn't just say what was in him to say, a song would come to him, and it made him feel exactly what he meant. He didn't have to know what he was feeling or why, just that he could, and the music made it real, made it true. It tapped into the thrum like it was on the same harmonic. If he sang it, everything made sense. It gave him words. His therapist even let him bring his Ipod and kept an electronic keyboard in the corner of her office just for him. If nothing else, it gave him something to do with his hands, and it made him not hate therapy quite so much.

There was a song for today, reverb. It was Alanis. Another one by Brand New came close, but Alanis hit it perfectly. He wasn't ready to sing it yet, but he'd been humming it on a loop since he got up. _Day one, day one_ …The first verse popped into his head when he was peeling himself out of the bedsheets, the birds already awake outside the window but the day itself still just a soft glow on the horizon. The birds sang it first, but he knew the words. _Unsure, unconvincing…_ They were the first clear thought he'd had in days, a decision he'd been fighting to make. He slept until he could sleep no more, then blinked open his eyes, and it was made. Finally.

That was when he knew it was going to be a great day. _This faint and shaky hour…_

Or maybe he decided it. Either way, it was true. It would be. For today, he had Kurt in his pores, etched into his skin, under his fingernails, and nothing left to decide. He was going to enjoy every minute of it, right until he couldn't anymore.

He knew, then, for the first time in forever, exactly what he needed to do and when he was going to do it, and knowing was easier than deciding. Knowing was having no one trying to help him decide while also trying to convince him he was deciding for himself. Knowing was just one ping pong ball left in the lottery, and it felt good.

He saw Kurt leap to his feet from where he was seated next to his dad, his hand knocking one of the branches on the maple tree they were picnicking under as he tried to get Blaine's attention. Blaine waved back and picked up his pace but didn't bother picking up his smile until Kurt was just a few paces away. They grasped elbows briefly, the slide of hands up forearms and thumbs stroking over the sensitive skin in the crooks of their arms slightly more intimate than a handshake but not so conspicuous as holding hands.

"Hey, I missed you this morning." Kurt was radiant, as always, even in the slightly ridiculous outfit that made him suspect Rachel had probably designed the costumes for the Spectacular. Who wore an ascot in July, anyway?

"Well, I didn't bring an overnight bag, and all my meds were at home," he dismissed. "Plus, I thought you'd be sleeping in and didn't want to wake you."

Kurt's somewhat noncommittal "Hmm," said he didn't believe that was the whole truth, but he didn't press further, falling into step beside Blaine as they continued down the fairway.

"Guess what?"

"What?"

"There's a polka band in the dance pavillion!"

"Blaine, you can't polka, not with your..."

"No, but you can. I talked to the band leader, and he's going to show me how to play his stumpf fiddle. A stumpf fiddle, Kurt! Can you believe it? I'm going to play and yell, 'dance, chicken, dance,' while you do your best Funky Chicken. And then we're going to post the whole thing on YouTube. It's going to be amazing!"

"No part of that sounds amazing to me," Kurt argued.

"That's because you haven't tried it yet." Blaine took Kurt's hand and leapt forward abruptly enough to nearly drag him off his feet. "Now, c'mon. You trust me, don't you? I know a shortcut!"

Even the very vocal groan of bemusement couldn't entirely camouflage the twinkle in Kurt's eye that told Blaine he was doing everything right. Of course he was. At least he was 'faking it 'til he was pseudo making it,' just like the song. Alanis was a genius. It was day one, and day one was a practically perfect day.

-#-

Sue wasn't purposely stalking the Wee Warbler. First, she never stalked. This was a public venue, and a very tall woman in an Uncle Sam costume was practically a required backdrop. Second, she was there to get dirt on Burt Hummel. School was out for the year. Time to garner dirt for political muckraking. It was an election year, after all. Burt's particular position wasn't on the ballot this time around, but it would be. Oh, it would be, and preparation was key to success. She was convinced her previous loss in their district was entirely the result of the fact that Hummel threw his hat into the race much too late to allow for a proper undermining of his character.

Okay, so she'd been digging for months, and unless some respected scientific journal printed a study that suggested being too loving and supportive as a father could make your kid gay, then she had nothing on Burt Hummel.

And the stupid sequins on this Uncle Sam getup were not doing a thing to deflect the heat of the July sun. She just happened to be standing under the awning of the shooting gallery and behind that tree, because it was the only decent shade she could fit under with her top hat on. That's where she was when she was nearly blinded by the glare of sunlight off a familiar head of overly shellacked helmet hair. That prep school transfer kid was meandering his way down the fairway as if looking intently for something he was a little bit terrified to find. He didn't particularly stand out. Boat shoes and khaki shorts were pretty much standard attire for the occasion. But she had it on good authority—that authority being the dozen or so flyers she'd ripped down—that Schuester's crooning miscreants were doing a show that day, and the few other choir members she'd spotted were all wearing some version of blue shorts and a white Henley.

One of these things was not like the others.

Taking in Blaine Anderson's slightly glazed expression and deviation from New Directions status quo, Sue couldn't help but be intrigued. Something was different about the kid, and not just different from the rest of his peers but different from the way she remembered him, and graduation was only a month ago. His eyes seemed darker, more sunken somehow, even allowing for the angle of the afternoon sun on those ridiculously long eyelashes. (Seriously, in what genetic population was that a mutation that contributed to natural selection in any way?) And even though the area around his eyes seemed darker, the rest of him seemed to have faded, his naturally tan complexion washed out as though he'd spent the last month indoors or under a rock instead of doing any other number of things normal teenaged boys did outdoors on their summer vacations. And what was he doing wandering around the fairgrounds alone? Didn't he have any friends? Just how pathetic was he, and what was he trying to hide? Sue Sylvester and conservative America had a right to know.

The object of her scrutiny was just about past her when his expression changed entirely. Like someone opened the door on the refrigerator, a light flickered on, and his steps adopted a lighter quality. A few seconds later, Porcelain sashayed his way up the fairway, and it was obvious exactly who controlled the light switch on that ex-Warbletoot. She barely suppressed her own gag reflex when she noted the red scarf around Squire Hummel's neck. She knew a blatant hickey cover when she saw one. Apparently the Middle Earth refugee was part vampire. That would explain his lack of suntan and thirst for sparkly Porcelain blood.

Kurt would've never let himself be marked in such a vulgar fashion when he was still with the Cheerios—yet another example of how the arts corrupt our youth.

He didn't even look happy. Even with the wingless land bird chattering incessantly in his ear, Porcelain had substantially less sparkle about him than he'd had at graduation. Something worn out and aching shadowed his cheekbones like the overdone makeup on a runway model. She couldn't help but notice, too, the way he ducked his gaze playfully, blushing and smiling along with whatever Blaine was going on about, but let it all slip when Blaine looked away and Kurt had the chance to let his eyes sweep and linger like he was searching for something only he knew was hidden away. Worry. He was worried. Not only that, it was the worst kind of worry. Lovesickness.

Damn the heart for wanting what the heart wanted.

Damn Sue Sylvester for wanting Porcelain to have whatever Porcelain wanted. She bit her tongue as the hyperactive designer Golden Lhasa Warblerdoodle nearly yanked Kurt's arm out of the socket as he dashed away.

Despite not having actually been hiding, it took her longer to get out of her nook than would've qualified as a graceful exit. By the time she caught up to Tony and Porcelina, Blaine was walloping on some contraption that looked like an entire percussion section made out of Tinker Toys. As if he wasn't making enough of a fool of himself, he seemed to have somehow convinced Kurt to engage in the most flamboyant version of the Funky Chicken dance she had ever seen. Before she could cry obvious emotional exploitation, Kurt spun around, wiggled his little tushy and jumped up clapping.

And laughing hysterically.

Whatever spiritual baggage had been weighing him down fifteen minutes prior, seemed to have been shaken off, and the harder Blaine whacked that stupid stick and stomped it up and down, the faster Kurt danced. When the 'song' ended, he danced his way over to his boyfriend and yanked him out onto the dancefloor with him, the two of them twirling and laughing like they had forgotten where they were.

Luckily for them, Sue hadn't forgotten where they were. When that annoying ice cream bicycle came pedaling down the lane, blaring that stupid Disney reject music, she accidentally walked in front of it and got one of her Uncle Sam suspenders caught on the handlebars, tipping the whole cart over on its side, before yelling "Free ice cream," as the cooler opened up and dumped ice and popsicles all over the sidewalk.

When she looked up again, Blaine and Kurt had discretely removed themselves from the public eye and disappeared once more into the crowd.

-#-

Partly because Burt Hummel had been absconded by the Mayor of Lima himself, and partly because Porcelain and his Wee Warbler were obviously under the influence of some pretty heady teenage hormones that rendered them suddenly incapable of blending in, Sue ended up following them for the rest of the day. For their own protection, of course. Seriously, she didn't know everything that was going on with those two, but it was like suddenly they had decided to give up any pretense of decency and flaunt their long, erect, glitter spewing unicorn horns for the whole of the world—and specifically the ultra-conservative population of Lima, Ohio—to see. By the time they met up with the rest of the New Directions for their performance, she'd caught them cheating at squirt gun races by taking turns siting the gun while the other reached around from behind and pulled the trigger, witnessed Blaine licking the caramel off an apple and then feeding Kurt the apple, and spotted them sneaking in a make out session behind that little RV where they showed filmstrips about Bible verses on the half hour.

At one point she was pretty sure she was being trailed by Security. It was possible that stealing the hammer from the strong man game and using it to knock over the cups at the pitching game had been going a tad too far, but Kurt and Blaine had been trying on novelty sunglasses in one of the merchant tents, and she'd noted more than a few passersby frowning at the way they touched each other's faces and hair and draped themselves over each other in order to fit both their faces into the tiny display mirrors. Seriously, those two seemed to have lost their collective minds.

The worst part of it all wasn't the sickening sweetness of it and how Sue was going to need some major dental work after spending so much time watching the Wonder Twin powers activate all over the place. No, the worst part wasn't the way each one seemed to feed off the laughter of the other, beaming and glowing whenever they forgot to look away in a timely manner. It was the way they looked at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking, something melancholy and aching smothering out the twinkle in their respective eyes like that oil slick effect they'd used in old episodes of "The X-Files."

She began to get the impression via her super highly tuned ninja powers of observation that those two weren't just being careless and irresponsible because they were slaves to their own hyper active teenaged libidos. Something more was going on. If she didn't know better, she'd think they were trying to clear the table before the buffet closed. Which was ridiculous. They were teenagers. Forever might be a ridiculous concept, but those two had far more of it left than anyone she knew.

Or they were dancing around something, each one distracting the other from something neither was willing to address.

Probably a little of each, since teenagers had an uncanny ability to complicate things beyond reason.

When she took a seat in the back row for the glee club performance, she'd begun to think of Kurt and Blaine as Klaine, and even if she'd heard that title whispered in the halls of McKinley before then, she was totally going to take credit for it going forward. As Kurt headed off with the rest of the club and left Blaine parked in the front row next to Emma Pillsbury, the reason for Blaine's attire not matching the rest of the group's became clear. So, he wasn't performing. Her midday protein shake turned rancid in her stomach as she recalled the trip to Nationals and wondered whether the Tiny Dancer was sicker than she knew. True, he was only supposed to perform with New Directions in a limited capacity, but judging by the size of the stage here, she didn't think any of them were going to be dancing to excess.

She sat through Finn Hudson's deplorable rendition of Reo Speedwagon's "Time for Me to Fly," and Asian Number Two's version of "Breakaway," and despite wanting to claw out both her eyes and ears, managed to keep enough of her senses about her to decide there was nothing strenuous enough in either of those routines to prevent a hairy-toed hobbit from participating. Hell, the handicapped kid hadn't even unlocked the wheels on his chair during the last number.

Maybe the buffet was about to close, after all.

-#-

Kurt knew something was up; something was coming, and he couldn't help but recall how well that had worked out for Tony in "West Side Story." He wasn't normally such a cynic—silly, hopeless romantic had worked out fine for him so far—and there was nothing blatantly wrong. If anything, everything was going right, so right, in fact that Kurt had lost count of the number of times Blaine had specifically said, 'best day ever,' even under his breath at times, like it was a mantra instead of an observation.

Not that it wasn't. It was the best day ever, or at least the best day since Blaine got out of the hospital. Other than waking up alone this morning and having a minor freak-out when he caught his first glimpse of the mark on his neck, everything had been wonderful. Too wonderful. Wonderful to excess. And the closer they got to the end of the day, the more Blaine seemed to hang on every moment. Kurt didn't miss the way he leaned closer, breathed deeper, held gazes entirely too long as if trying to mentally file away every second into just the right corner of his mind, tracing and retracing the pathway that brought him there so he could go back without getting lost. Kurt almost felt guilty dragging his hand out of Blaine's when he had to go backstage to get ready for the show, leaving Blaine to keep Miss Pillsbury company in the front row.

By the time he made it backstage, he'd already half made up his mind to go back and get Blaine and drag him up onto the stage with them. It wasn't like he didn't know all the songs and most of the choreography, but that wasn't a close enough recipe for perfection to make it worth the risk, wouldn't keep Blaine from beating himself up if he so much as sang an 'ooh' instead of an 'aah.' And the blocking was pretty tight. The more he thought about it, the more Kurt knew that, as wrong as it felt to leave Blaine sitting in the audience, bringing him up on stage would be an entirely selfish move on Kurt's part. He was actually okay with that, to a degree. He didn't owe Lima, Ohio anything, and he was pretty sure most of the New Directions felt the same way, especially since more than half of them were now graduated and moving on.

But he did owe Blaine. He owed Blaine everything, too much to put him on the spot like that.

So, he left Blaine in the audience, wearing the ridiculously cheap and adorable, red, white, and blue plastic sunglasses they'd bought right before that crazy Uncle Sam character had gone berserk and torn up the fairway. Instead of harmonizing with him, Kurt got to watch him mouth the words to every song, beginning with Finn's Reo Speedwagon selection, "Time for Me to Fly," and continuing with Artie's solo rendition of "Control." And even after the sun went down and the audience started trickling out on their way to score seats for the fireworks show at the main stage, the sunglasses stayed on.

Halfway through their last number, Blaine seemed to forget the lyrics, even though he'd been the one to suggest "Firework," in the first place, and there wasn't a Katy Perry lyric he didn't have by rote. When he tipped forward, elbows on his knees, and rested his forehead atop his clasped hands, it was all Kurt could do to stop himself from jumping off the stage, but he saw Miss Pillsbury lean forward and whisper in his ear, a hand between his shoulder blades, and saw him nod an affirmation that seemed to satisfy her enough to return to her upright position after handing him a bottle of water.

When the set finally finished and Kurt hopped down, Blaine seemed fine, even if his eyes were just a little too bright once he tucked the sunglasses into the front of his shirt. His shoulders had squared, and his chin was held up, if a little too purposely so. When Kurt reached him, Blaine jumped out of his seat and met him with both hands extended, taking Kurt's in a double pump as he stroked over knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

"That was great, Kurt," he beamed. "Really great. You were perfect."

"Well, only thanks to your tutoring," Kurt dismissed. "Without that, I'm sure Finn would have decapitated one of us with his mic stand during the helicopter twirl."

"No, no," Blaine denied. "You guys were perfect. The best." His lips trembled for a moment. "B-best day ever." Searching Kurt's face, something a little hopeful but desperate swam in the thick air between them. "You had a good day, today, didn't you, Kurt?"

"It was amazing." Kurt took in the slight shiver vibrating through the entirety of Blaine's countenance. "How about you, Blaine? You looked a little upset during the last number," he pressed gently.

"I know," Blaine said. "And no, it's been great. I guess I just didn't want it to end."

"Well, it's not over yet. The fireworks haven't even started. We can head up to grab seats if you want to. They should be starting soon."

"Would you mind, if we just stayed here? We'll be able to see most of the air show, anyway, even if we miss some of the ground display."

Confused, but accommodating, because he'd seen the same fireworks display every year of his life since he was born, "Sure. We can do that."

"That'll be enough, you think?"

"Enough for what, Blaine?"

"Just... enough. Will it be, do you think?"

That niggling little feeling of dread that had been clawing at Kurt since that morning dug in deeper to the point of physical pain. In his mind's eye, he was Alice, and Blaine was just out of reach, frantically trying to hold back the ticking hands of a giant pocket watch. He wondered where Blaine felt he had to be, if he knew that 'better' wasn't a destination he could just pencil in on his itinerary. Whatever train of thought Blaine was chasing around in his mind, that was a rabbit hole Kurt didn't dare follow him down.

"C'mon. Let's sit up here." The band had left some folding chairs stacked against the far wall of the shell. Kurt dragged two over and popped them open a few feet back from the edge of the stage. They each straddled one, facing up the hill and between the bending trees toward the open sky. Elbows folded across the backs of the chairs, their thighs butted against each other, and Blaine hooked one ankle around Kurt's. A giant willow tree whispered in the breeze beside the amphitheater seating area. The humid summer air collected under its limbs, and in it, fireflies began to flicker, completely unaware of the day's chaos that preceded their nightly dance.

For a while, it was enough—enough for then, enough for now.

They sat in silence until the first fireworks began to pop overhead, and while the beginning of the show was always a little bland, Kurt didn't miss the way Blaine's eyes stayed fixed on the ground, on the bending grass and its sparking fireflies, the manmade flashes above just so much garish glare that made the shadows around his eyes infinitely deeper. Under cover of darkness, Blaine let any pretense of okay slip away, and he slid along with it, unaware of just how much the fireworks revealed.

"Blaine, you're shaking. What's wrong? And don't say nothing, because I know something's been bothering you ever since you got out of the hospital. You've been avoiding me or keeping me so busy that we don't talk. I've been trying to give you your space, but whatever it is, it's eating you up, and you're doing a terrible job of hiding it."

Blaine's gaze darted up, fixing on Kurt's as pale blue exploded in the sky above them, giving the wells around his eyes an icy gleam. "I have to tell you something, but I... I don't know how."

"You can tell me anything, Blaine. Whatever it is, we'll work it out. We always do."

"That's just it, Kurt. It's not something _we_ can work out. It's something I have to." He dropped his chin, seeming to stare at the back of the chair and cleared his throat. "In therapy, when I sometimes can't say what I need to say, my therapist lets me sing." He reached across the space between them and took Kurt's hand in his. "I've had this song playing in the back of my head all day. Will you sing with me, Kurt?"

Swallowing hard, Kurt nodded. "If I know it."

"You do," Blaine promised. He squeezed Kurt's hand tighter. "And no matter what, don't let go until the end. Okay?"

His nod was abrupt, a distinct upward tilt of his chin, just one, and then his gaze leveled as he reached across and covered their clasped hands with his other for emphasis. Heavy drops of rain began to fall, lazy and intermittent, each disappearing in a tiny poof of dust on the ground, but they were covered by the roof of the shell, the moment only heavier with the added weight of the air around them.

 _Reborn and shivering_  
 _Spat out on new terrain_  
 _Unsure unconvincing_  
 _This faint and shaky hour_

Blaine was right. Kurt did know it. How could he not? Alanis, after all. And it made sense. Of course this was how Blaine must be feeling, and of course, he'd never say it except in song. His hand tightened in Blaine's, a silent thanks for sharing, for letting Kurt in on something so private, even as something about the song choice hit him like the first sip off a bottle of Coke, the fizz burning behind his soft palate and into the floor of his brain. His lungs seized around the choke of it even as he started to sing along.

 _Day one, day one_  
 _Start over again_  
 _Step one, step one_  
 _I'm barely making sense_

Funky chickens and stumpf fiddles, lazy makeout sessions and cheap sunglasses, a little arbitrary, perhaps, ecclectic for sure, but entirely Blaine. Kurt searched his gaze, lost at how to express that it all made perfect sense to him. He understood. He thought he did. He wanted to so badly.

 _For now I'm faking it_  
 _Till I'm pseudo making it_

And then he understood.

Best day ever... enough.

Blaine was making it good, making sure Kurt had the time of his life, sucking the marrow out of every second himself, because the reality of the situation was, it would never be enough, and their moment was about to end.

 _From scratch, begin again_  
 _But this time I as I and not as we_

 _( **Not As We, Alanis Morissette** )_

"Are you breaking up with me?" A sob, and Kurt broke his promise not to let go.

"Kurt... I need..." Blaine's throat worked in spasms, words barely dragging out.

"You are! You're breaking up with me. Oh god, I think I'm going to be sick." Stage whispered in disbelief and anguish, a desperate hope for the words to be swallowed up in the cloying humidity and disappear, untrue. The rain fell just a little harder, not faster, but the drops heavier, overfilled and membrane stretched. Behind Blaine, the fireflies sparkled, taking refuge under the fronds of the willow tree and up into its draping canopy in a steady progression to the top. Above that, fireworks warred against the darkness and punctuated the dead stillness of the air with cannon booms.

"No! I mean... not breaking up. Just... a break, from us." Blaine pulled, and Kurt let himself be drawn in, let his head rest against Blaine's as Blaine continued to talk into the crook of his neck, stubble a harsh scratch against his racing pulse. "I'm sick, Kurt, and most days right now it's all I can do to survive." A shuddering breath. "You can't be here."

Shaking and halfway to wrung out, "I won't let you push me away. I want to be here for you."

Blaine pulled back, bottom lip curling around his teeth as he set his jaw. "You are, but while you're here for me, I'm not here for me, and you're not there for you." He took Kurt by the shoulders, and Kurt tried to look away, at the fireflies pluming into the upper canopy of the tree. "I have to spend all my time getting better. Every second of every day I'm looking at myself, questioning what I'm feeling, what's me, what's... sickness, how to tell the difference. It's all I can do to figure out me, but I have to do it."

"This is because of your mom, isn't it? And Cooper?" A sudden clarity, something Cooper had hinted at but never said outright, how they were worried about his relationship with Blaine. "They don't know us, Blaine. They don't know what we can do together."

"No," a sharp shake of his head, "it's not them. And it's not about us. Not really. Kurt, there is no us, if I don't know me. There's no, 'what am I going to do with my life,' no 'where am I going to end up,' no 'how am I going to get there.' A relationship is two people, not one person and one giant question mark. I can't even think about the future, Kurt. I can't dream. And you need to dream! I need you to be able to dream without me holding you back." He raised a hand, sensing Kurt's protest bubbling to the surface and putting a lid over it. "And I need you to keep me in that dream and believe I'll be there when we wake up and it's all real and we're together."

"So, you're not...?"

"You said it first, Kurt," Blaine cupped his hands around Kurt's face, fixing their eyes on one another. "I'll never say goodbye to you. Especially not now. I need you. I'll always need you, but I need to not be 'us' right now, so I can love you better later."

Kurt couldn't breathe, his chest simultaneously bursting because Blaine was doing this for them, was trying to be the bigger person and willing to do what he needed to get better, and yet collapsing because he couldn't need this, couldn't need Kurt to carve him out of his life and go on ahead as if his entire being hadn't been tethered into loving and being loved by Blaine. Blaine couldn't need that, and Kurt didn't want that.

But he could do it.

In the moment, he knew his resistance was entirely selfish, because he'd already archived in his head all the stories he was going to tell in New York about his amazing boyfriend back home, because he didn't want to have the awkward conversations with his parents and his friends about what it meant to be 'on a break,' didn't know if he was ready to have that conversation with himself. So, he let Blaine do the talking, let him talk them into it, even though his entire body shook in protest, a silent scream battering the inside of his skull, a part of him hoping Blaine would talk himself in a circle and come back to where they began, forget they were breaking apart and just fall back together the way they were.

Above them, the fireworks show had reached its climax, the entire sky lit up, brighter still for the backdrop of thick rain clouds billowing in behind it. "I won't give up on you."

"And I won't give up on us."

"Promise?" A plea and an acquiescence, room for hope, a dare to dream—definitely not goodbye.

"Promise." A vow.

And then all was decided except when—when this was over, when to begin again. So they stayed, hands clasped and gazes fixed on the firefly tree, as if holding on would forestall the passing of time, and the when would never come. The rain grew steadily more insistent, pulling down the coiled smoke of the celebration above and washing it out of the sky around them, the acrid gunpowder stench of the moment clinging into and around them. It stayed long after the lightning streaked in behind the smoke and prodded them apart. It stayed even after they no longer could.

-TBC


	11. Smile and Try To Mean It

**AN:** As always thanks everyone for reading. I'd intended to post on Friday, but had internet issues, which I ended up fixing by unplugging my modem and plugging it back in. I'm surprised it took me that long to figure it out, because whenever someone at work asks me to get their machine running, the first thing I always ask is, "Did you shut it down and start it back up?" The second thing is, "Did you put any oil in it?" Surprising how many things can be fixed in one of those two ways. Anyway, this is a transition chapter, so there's some significant passage of time and quite a bit more exposition than I like, but I had to get through the summer and back to the canon timeline. There are some things that are obviously different from canon, primarily because, in this universe, Kurt got into NYADA on the first try. I will try to post once more this week, but since it's a holiday, there will most likely only be one. Thanks again, everyone.

It was sobering how quickly perspectives changed. Suddenly, the thing Blaine had been dreading since they made it through sectionals and no longer had the drama of the incredible shrinking glee club or Finn's one man crusade against anything and everything Blaine to focus on, became the most viable reprieve. He didn't regret his decision to take a step back from his relationship with Kurt, and after the first few days of staying locked in their respective rooms, Kurt seemed to understand, too. The problem was being so close to someone he was supposed to be taking a step back from.

Painfully awkward barely described it, still more painful than awkward.

They were working through it. Sort of.

Every graduating senior from the Class of 2012 had arranged for some very therapeutic group counseling in the form of individual going away parties where just the glee members got together to reminisce and send each other off in style. Of course, there was a fair share of getting their drink on, which automatically made Blaine the designated driver, and left him exposed without the warm cushion of alcohol to take some bite out of the goodbyes and the drunken, unfiltered comments of certain Louisville bound Latina cheerleaders. It was good, though. Really. Blaine and Kurt got used to mingling, even if that led to Blaine realizing that the only thing he had in common with most of the New Directions was music and Kurt. It was starting point. Lucky for him, Brittany hadn't graduated, and she had an uncanny ability to know when it was all just a little too much. He almost didn't mind anymore when she proclaimed herself a Thunder shirt and draped herself around him. He'd never admit he needed it, but obviously a part of him did.

The hardest part of taking a step back was knowing just how much distance apart was just a step when any farther than arm's length felt like miles. What was the protocol when Finn invited him over to play 'Call of Duty' and he ended up staying for dinner? Was Burt, still Burt, or was he Sir again? And who was Blaine supposed to call when everything was just too much and he knew he was on the verge of making one of those 'bad decisions' they'd talked about in therapy?

When he finally called Kurt, it wasn't a decision he made lightly. He waited, tried to work through it on his own, hours wondering if he was making the right decision, if something was going to shift, the itch behind his eyes somehow scratch itself or fade. Hours spent wondering if anything he did was working or he was just a lost cause, and then he called, hands shaking and eyes clenched shut as he waited, planning the message he'd leave, because surely Kurt wouldn't answer.

"Blaine?"

Or he'd answer on the second ring. "Kurt!" And then Blaine wouldn't know what to say. "I'm... sorry, I-I don't think I expected you to answer."

"Of course I'd answer. I promised you I always would."

"Yeah, but that was before I... before we..."

"Blaine, we're on a break; we're not broken up, and even if we were, I would still answer. You're my best friend. That won't ever change."

Blaine cupped the phone against his head as he dropped his chin to his chest and took a shuddering breath. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For answering."

"Did you call for any particular reason, or did you just miss the sound of my voice?"

Blaine choked on the laugh, pressed his thumb and fingers into his eye sockets. "I do miss you. So much, Kurt." He let that hang in the air for a beat, because he couldn't say more than that. Progress was forward, not back. "But actually, I'm having a really bad day, and I didn't want to call you, but no one's home."

"How bad, Blaine?"

"Not-not the worst. You know, I'm not going to _do_ anything, or whatever, but I just feel like it's been weeks now. I should feel better. Maybe it's not working. Maybe I'm just not doing something right. I mean, I'm going to counseling. I'm doing everything they tell me to do. Why don't I feel better?"

"Blaine, whatever you're working through, whatever issues you have, they didn't just show up the day you got diagnosed. They've been there for a while, and they're not just going to go away because you start working on them. But you're doing better. I know you are. You never would've called to tell me you felt bad before. You would've sent me a text about how amazing my ass looks in these jeans and expound on your elaborate plan to get me out of them."

"You knew about that?"

"About what? That you use sex as a distraction? Of course I knew. Who else were you having sex with?"

"You're amazing, you know that?"

"I've been told."

An extended beat as Blaine soaked in how good this felt, how normal.

"Can you just...?"

"Can I what?"

"Keep talking? I guess maybe I really did just need to hear your voice. I feel better already."

"Sure...uh... I'm not sure what to talk about. I've mostly been packing for the big move. That's coming up in two more weeks. I found this really great idea for how to hang curtains in the loft to make it seem like we have actual rooms and, you know, privacy and stuff, even though we'll still be able to _hear_ everything..."

Blaine smiled and let himself be lulled by the sound of Kurt's voice, just checking in occasionally with an appropriately timed, "uh-huh," so Kurt would know he wasn't asleep, and then at some point he must've actually fallen asleep, because his mother was shaking him awake, a trail of drool snaking down his cheek toward the phone. It was the best he'd slept in days.

Two steps forward and one step back became the norm again.

He showed up to Mike Chang's party to find Brittany, the human Thunder shirt, draped around Kurt, both of them with red-rimmed eyes and a few too many empties stacked on the counter in front of them.

That kind of sucked.

But then Kurt moved to New York, and things, believe it or not, got easier.

They still got to be close over the phone without having to bear awkward witness to any of the private personal pain each may or may not have been the cause of in the first place. It was a lot like starting over, back to the days when Blaine was still at Dalton and Kurt was at McKinley, and everything was friendly and flirty and fun.

Except when it wasn't, but that's what this was all about in the first place, right? About learning to deal with the unfun things. On his own.

And asking for help when he needed it.

He could do that.

At least, he was learning that he could.

He was learning he could do a lot of things.

-#-

School started, and that was good for a distraction, but in all honesty, most of the time, it was the exact wrong kind of distraction. Glee club was down to seven returning members, and that was if you counted Joe and Sugar who seemed to teleport in and out at will. Wade/Unique was a strong addition, but didn't make up for the five people they needed to even make a legal competition team. It made no sense, with numbers what they were, that two full pages worth of students signed up to audition and Mr. Schue only picked one, but that was his call. To be honest, having only Marley to mentor did make it easier to keep to himself and avoid a lot of difficult conversations, but he felt like he was kind of shirking his duties as the new Rachel. Okay so he was pretty sure he got the title by sympathy vote from one guy who couldn't dance to another, and hadn't Rachel driven away the most promising new recruit McKinley had ever had in favor of protecting her own position as lead soloist? So, maybe he was actually perfect for the part.

Besides, how much mentoring did Marley really need? Even Sue Sylvester liked her. She kind of had everything going for her in a Mary-Sueish kind of way. As long as she stayed away from Kitty Wilde, she'd be fine.

Mr. Schue was trying hard to work around Blaine's physical limitations, but his solution to that problem was to give him Brad's job accompanying the group for practices. (Brad still worked performances, of course.) It was a mixed bag. Blaine still got to sing, and it was nice to be able to put an entire grand piano between himself and the rest of the world when he needed to, but harmonizing with the group from the front of the room wasn't always easy, and watching them run dances from his bench made him feel, well... benched.

Sometimes he thought he'd be better off going back to Dalton where he still had a few friends that weren't really just Kurt's friends who accepted him by association but never really took any time to talk to him when it wasn't about Glee. Home schooling was always an option, right?

Then there were the days he woke up determined to make things work, willing to do anything in his power, and the power seemed infinite.

The jury was still out on whether that was a step forward or back.

"And then I may have signed up for every single club at McKinley and joined the race for Student Council President while singing 'Everybody Wants to Rule the World,' by Tears for Fears."

Considering the shortness of breath and the tremor in his hand, the deep down itch behind his eyes, radiating from the small of his back and down through his kneecaps like sciatica, inability to sit, stand, move, or stay still... yeah, he probably wasn't quite ready to deal with his current situation on his own. And not ready to rule the world, like at all, despite having felt certain of it not three hours ago.

"And what song are you thinking of right now?"

Blaine shut his eyes and hummed for a second. He couldn't really explain how it worked. He didn't have to know what song it was to feel the chord progressions in his fingertips and know that if he opened his mouth the words that came out would be the lyrics, even if he never actually remembered learning them in the first place. It was like hearing a song on the radio that he hadn't heard since he was five and being able to sing along or watching a movie and not remembering having seen it but somehow knowing exactly what was going to happen next. Sometimes it freaked him out a little, but when he gave himself over to it and just trusted, the answer he got was genuine. Not a lot about his life felt that way anymore.

Blaine had to think hard, gripping the steering wheel like he intended to embed his fingerprints in the neoprene cover. Jaw working to chew out the syllables and spit them out in the right order, he exhaled and said, "It's Mika, 'Any Other World.'"

 _"I tried to live alone but lonely is so lonely, alone_

 _So human as I am, I had to give up my defenses_

 _So I smiled and tried to mean it, to let myself let go"_

"Blaine, you can't be sitting there by yourself."

Definitely a setback, then, and this was kind of a problem. Ms. Pillsbury's office hours were over, and Tina and Sam were at Tina's cramming for a Philosophy midterm. Blaine was sure they wouldn't mind him crashing their study non-date, but he doubted they were ready to see more than the musical theater version of bipolar disorder. And that's how he ended up sitting in his car in the school parking lot with Kurt's voice coming from the hands-free phone stand on the dash.

"I know. Why do you think I'm calling you?" He white-knuckled the steering wheel and shook his head. "I'm-I'm sorry, Kurt."

"No. Don't be. Okay? I just... Are you okay to drive? Should I have my dad come get you?"

"No. I mean, yes, I'm okay, I think. I don't know where to go. No one's at home; no one's at school."

"Blaine, go to my dad's shop. He's hanging out there while Congress is still on summer recess. He'll give you something to do until your mom gets home."

"Good, okay. Good, that's what I need. I'll do anything."

"No. You won't do _anything_ , Blaine. That's why you called me, remember? So you can _make better choices_." He dragged out the last three words for emphasis, a reminder of where his focus needed to be. "I'll call Dad and let him know you're coming, okay? He'll probably put you to work doing oil changes." The way he drew out the diphthong on 'oil changes' made it clear that he thought that was a smart, safe choice of distraction.

"'K" Because he couldn't just say, 'I love you so much, Kurt,' could he?

"And Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for calling. I want to know how you're feeling, even when it's not okay… Okay?"

"Mm-hmm." That was the best he could do. Too much talking already. Too much sitting still.

"I'm hanging up now, Blaine, so I can call Dad. I'll let him know you'll be there in five minutes." A beat. "I love you."

A huge sigh of relief. He hadn't realized the question was creeping into the back of his mind until Kurt answered it, made it okay.

"You, too." So much.

-#-

So, his palms were sweaty, despite being ice cold, when Blaine made it to the shop, and no amount of rubbing them on the seams of his pants could prepare him to shake Burt's hand without his grip sliding around awkwardly. He broke the contact, coughing a quick apology into his fist by way of breaking the silence, unsure what Kurt had told his father or where to start the conversation.

"Just the man I've been looking for," Burt said. He clapped Blaine on the back, let his hand rest on his shoulder as he turned them to face the rear of the shop where he had his old truck pulled in. "My truck needs an oil change, and I'm assuming, since you and your dad rebuilt a whole car, you can manage that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Yes, sir." Blaine started to roll up his sleeves, eager to get his hands busy.

"Uh! Not so fast," Burt steered him toward the row of lockers outside his office. "Get you a pair of coveralls so you don't ruin your school clothes." Then he used the hand on Blaine's shoulder to pull him in closer, dropping his head as he lowered his voice, "And you see all these guys working out here?"

Blaine nodded.

"They get paid by the hour, and they are going to think you're after their jobs if you get finished too fast. So, I want you to take a deep breath and take your time. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir. 10W-40?" He asked.

"Fifteen- diesel," Burt grinned.

"Mr. Hummel?"

"Son?"

"Thank you."

"I told you we'd look out for each other when Kurt went to New York, and I meant that. Thank you for..." He must've sensed Blaine shrinking away, which he was really trying not to do, but at the moment, the weight of Mr. Hummel's gaze and appraisal, real or perceived, were just too much. "Never mind. Just call me Burt." His hand squeezed on Blaine's shoulder before giving him a pat and sending him on his way.

Blaine appreciated the show of support, but he didn't miss the fact that the truck was parked in clear eyeshot and earshot of Burt sitting just inside his office, and it was Burt's personal truck. If Blaine completely botched things, there'd be no angry customer to soothe. But he was just glad to be able to move around and have something to focus on other than the slip and slide of everything inside his skin trying to break out, which ironically mirrored the way he felt inside the coveralls. Even the smallest pair he could find was big enough that he had to roll both the sleeves and the pant cuffs just to have full use of his appendages.

The third time he dropped the wrench trying to take off the oil filter, he figured everyone in the shop must have him pegged as a total screw up. He just couldn't get his hands to stop shaking, and Burt was probably starting to regret letting Blaine anywhere near his place of business. He squinted his eyes shut as tightly as he could, like that could stop the thoughts racing in his head.

"Rough day at school today?" Burt asked, not even looking up from the paperwork he had open in front of him.

"Mostly good, actually." Blaine opened his eyes, focused on the offending nut as he willed the wrench to steady around it. "I joined a bunch of clubs and threw my hat into the ring for Student Council President. Plus, I got this idea for a Superheroes club. They already have a Superheroes Sidekicks club, but I thought a club for original characters would be awesome. I mean, I have to go to Figgins for permission to start one, but..." He cut himself before he could ramble himself into starting up a Young Mechanics club or something.

"Heeey, well, that sounds better than mostly good. Way to go, kid."

He might have had to nearly bite through his lip, but he finally got the oil filter off. "Thanks, but I'm not sure it's really that good. As soon as I sat down with my date planner and started penciling in all the meetings and the student council debates, I realized there was absolutely no way to do it all. And I should have been able to see that before I committed myself, you know? I thought I was getting better at recognizing when I..." he swallowed hard, "when I need to take a step back and evaluate, well, me." He grabbed the waste oil drain basin and slid under the truck on the dolley.

"Isn't that what you're doing? You called Kurt, didn't you? And you haven't started any of those clubs yet. You can still back out. No harm, no foul, right?"

The drain on the oil pan unscrewed much easier than the lock nut on the filter. His hand seemed a little steadier, his breath a little less viscous.

"Maybe."

"Give yourself some credit, kid. You look great, and you're putting in the work. You're going to figure this thing out. I believe in you, and I know Kurt does, too."

Blaine laughed mirthlessly. "Thank you. I'm trying to believe in myself, too. I'm just not quite there yet, I guess. But I do think I can be Student Council President and start that Superheroes club. I think that would be something constructive for me to do that will help the school." And without missing any sleep, he might have added, but he didn't.

"Might be a good way to make some friends, too, don't you think?"

The beat dragged on a little longer than they had been. "I-I have friends." He didn't even try to elaborate, because that argument was so full of holes you could strain wine through it. Blaine capped the drain and slid back out from under the truck, wiping his hands on his coveralls and reaching for the first quart of oil and a funnel.

"Then why are you here?" It was a question but felt like a statement of some profound gravity. "Don't get me wrong. You're always welcome here, and I like having you around. You're a good kid. But getting better doesn't have to be all hard work, does it? You're allowed to have fun, too, right? There's got to be something you'd rather be doing right now than changing the oil on that old jalopy. Video games? Movies? Pizza? Hell, I don't know what you kids do these days for fun, but I do know you're the only one I see hanging around _here_."

A glance over his shoulder to meet Burt's gaze, and Blaine knew it was the truth, but he could only handle that affirmation for half a second, maybe less. Changing the oil. He was changing the oil. "Point taken." He nearly spilled the next quart of oil before getting it over the funnel and saved it at the last second. "But I'm here now."

"Well, one step at a time. That's all anyone can ask."

"I know." But he really did ask for more than that from himself. _For_ himself. For _Kurt_. That made it kind of hard to distinguish progress from setback. Still, he wasn't sitting alone in his car freaking out. So, progress it was.

And as it turned out, changing the oil on a beat up pickup truck was just what the doctor ordered. By the time he was due home for dinner with his mom, he felt like his skin almost fit right again. Blue collar therapy for the win.

-#-

The Annual Show Choir Committee was composed of four people. Really? Four! And the Haverbrook guy didn't even have a show choir anymore. Will had trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that this tiny group actually had the power to make sweeping changes to the state of show choir competition for the entire country. Or do nothing, which seems to have been what the previous committees did. He couldn't think of anything that had changed in competition since he was in high school except for this year's elimination of the Finals Showcase round at Nationals. The judge's decisions were made after seeing every choir once, which made the whole day shorter for everyone. They'd tried out the new format last year in Chicago with sweeping approval from everyone involved.

That could actually work out in his favor. Since he had really only three other people to convince and the wave of a successful recent amendment on which to ride, there was a chance Will could do some real good this year. And he had something particular in mind, something that, believe it or not, Finn Hudson had put in his head last summer when they were preparing for the Star Spangled Spectacular.

It took a while to get there, but after spending an extra five minutes corralling Dalton Rumba into his chair only to have him rant about his loss of funding over Birdie Lawrence's astute observations about regional re-districting bylaws and waiting for that Phineas guy to contribute anything other than a long suffering look of disenchantment and self-loathing, Will finally had the floor.

He cleared his throat and stood, because it seemed appropriate, and then it seemed uncomfortable, so he sat on his table, pushing his name placeholder aside then leaning black, changing his mind and leaning forward, crossing and un-crossing his arms.

"Um, that brings us to New Business, then, and I..." he clapped his hands together, "well, I have some."

Phineas sunk back in his chair with a disgruntled grunt. "There goes any chance I had of making my dinner reservations. Happens every time we get some new guy in that seat." He shook his head. "I never thought I'd see the day when I missed Shelby Corcoran and her damned automatons winning Nationals."

"I have no idea what you just said," Dalton shouted, "but if I read the sentiment correctly, A-men! Let's blow this pop stand!"

On his feet again, Will raised his hands. "Wait, wait, wait. Hold on, everybody. Please. Just hear my proposal, and if you're really in a such a hurry to get out of here, vote yes, and you can be on your way."

"All in favor!" Birdie raised her hand.

"Aye!"

"You can't vote without a proposal on the floor, guys."

"I thought we were voting to be on our way."

"That's a suggestion, not a proposal."

"I propose..." Phineas started.

"Stop!" Will shouted. "Now, I have the floor, and I intend to keep it. You're all so quick to bemoan the state of the arts in our schools, but it seems to me, looking around the room, that you're as much a cause of the problem as a solution. I would like to propose a solution."

"And what, pray tell, could you possibly propose to save the arts in our schools, short of one of us getting on that Blue Ribbon Panel in Washington?" Birdie asked.

Will raised his eyebrows, surprised that anyone in the room had even heard about that panel. "To be honest, I toyed around with submitting an application to be on that panel, but then I realized the future of the arts isn't in Washington. It's here. It's in the kids. They have plenty to say about what they want and need in their schools, but they think no one is listening. We, in this room, have the power to give them a voice. They already have the audiences, now let's give them the chance to say something meaningful."

Phineas crossed his arms and checked his watch. "You've got five minutes. Wow me, Schuester, or don't, I don't care. You've got my vote."

"Well, okay, then." Will flashed a grin. This was going to be way easier than he thought.

-#-

"I don't smell raspberry hair gel. Where is Blaine Warbler?"

Will sighted. So, this was awkward. Today was supposed to be the big reveal about the new competition format Will had rammed through the Show Choir Committee, and his key performer was out. Not that Will could blame him. An emergency school board meeting had come out of left field and thrown a lot of people for a loop. Emma had been ready to go home at lunch herself but decided there were more constructive forms of distraction at work than at home. Will suspected Sue was the anonymous 'whistle blower,' behind the whole mess, but so far couldn't prove anything or even figure out what would motivate her to open that particular can of worms.

"Blaine is taking a... a mental health day today. He'll be back tomorrow."

"Really?" Sugar asked with that extra nasal quality Will had come to recognize as her sarcastic tone. " He misses his boyfriend. That's not a mental health issue. That's a bad Lifetime movie. Boo-hoo!(1)"

Of course, Sugar had been vacationing in Europe over the summer and missed the drama around Blaine's diagnosis, and no one had really been talking about it now that school was back in session.

"Sugar, I think you should sit down." They weren't going to have this discussion when Blaine wasn't even there to defend himself. Not that he should have to defend himself. Which was kind of the point of this lesson.

"What? I have undiagnosed Asperger's. I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking." A quick glance around the room at the handful of nodding heads proved that she wasn't entirely wrong. In fact, she was making Will's point perfectly. The new New Directions wasn't yet quite the cohesive group as the old one, and there was still a huge gap in the empathy bridge that came with seasoning and competition, the facing down of a common foe. They really hadn't even properly met each other yet.

Will took a deep, cleansing breath. "Thank you, Sugar, for reminding me that even though we have a policy of acceptance in this room, there's still a lot of misinformation and flat out ignorance out there," he gesticulated toward the choir room door, "that makes its way in here. If we want to come together as a group and bring home another Nationals trophy this year, we need to get on the same page, sooner rather than later. So, instead of the big announcement I had planned for today, I am going straight to this week's assignment."

"Ooh! Unique wants to do Beyoncé week!"

"Playing the biracial card and seconding that," Jake concurred without changing his sprawl in the chair.

Schue held up his hands. "This is not a music assignment."

"What?" Tina whined. "It's not an essay, is it? I already have a term paper and a Chemistry report to type up. This is like the one class where my fingers get to take a break."

"It's not an essay," Will sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Just why did everything have to be like pulling teeth? He loved his kids, but at the moment was questioning his desire to ever have any of his own. "Tonight, there's an emergency school board meeting in the auditorium. You are all hereby assigned to attend."

"No!" The collective protest was to be expected, but Schue wasn't swayed.

"You kids are too quick to let people speak for you when it comes to the place where you spend the majority of your time for thirteen years of your lives. There is a very important issue being discussed at the forum tonight, and if you're not going because I assigned you, too, then you need to go to support one of your own. I think Blaine will appreciate having some friendly faces there."

"Wait, Blaine's going to be there?" Sam seemed baffled. "He's my little bro, you know, and I'm his Vice President. He never said anything to me."

"This thing kind of blindsided us all, I think. We just found out about it yesterday, and I know Blaine likes to keep some things private, so I'm not surprised he didn't mention it."

"What's this meeting about, Mr. Schue," Marley asked, barely raising her hand before doing so.

"Well, it's about whether or not the school needs to have more insurance and where we'll get the money for that if we do."

"More insurance for what?" Ryder asked. "Didn't they almost let Sue fire Brittany out of a cannon two years ago? They'd have to be insured to the hilt to allow that."

"That," Will pontificated, hands on hips, "is an excellent point, which is why I'm pretty sure it's just an excuse for a bunch of people to come together and air their grievances." He took a deep breath and rolled back his sleeves. "It seems that someone on the school board found out about Blaine's hospital stay last summer, and they've raised the question about whether it's safe to allow students with diagnosed mental illness and those on certain medications to attend public school.(2)"

"Why wouldn't it be safe?" Sam scoffed. "Have they met Blaine?"

"Wait, Blaine's medicated?" Jake squinted but still didn't bother sitting up any straighter. His jaw worked side to side as he mulled the idea over briefly before he shrugged. "That actually makes sense. Dude's insanely talented. Aren't the great ones all a little crazy?"

"First of all," Will gritted, eyes shut in dismay, "Blaine is not crazy, and second, we will not refer to mental illness in any derogatory manner, ever, in this room. He's very dedicated to his treatment and deserves mad props for all the work he's putting in, not to mention the support of all of his teammates."

"Besides, this is a big school," Tina added. "He can't be the only one that's in therapy. And wasn't the point of him going into the hospital in the first place so he could get better? What else is he supposed to do? Just stop going to therapy and go off his meds? Would they rather he just came to school and pretended to be okay when he's not?"

"Yeah, what are they trying to do, run him out?" Ryder asked.

"Can they do that?" Joe added.

"They can't, can they?" Artie prodded. "That's blatant discrimination. That'd be like telling me I'm welcome to go to school here but taking out all the wheelchair ramps so I couldn't get in."

Will shook his head. "While it's ridiculous and opens a whole can of civil rights worms, the district has the responsibility to address these concerns, founded or unfounded, and the public has the right to weigh in."

"Sounds like a witch hunt to me," Sam huffed, slouching back in his chair.

"Blaine's not a witch. He's a dolphin," Brittany interjected, looking confused when she was met with a sea of blank stares. "What? It's true. That's why Lord Tubbington only gets dolphin safe tuna." She looked a little sheepish, smoothing the pleats in her skirt. "And Santana showed me how to use scissors." Another wall of confused disbelief. "So we can cut the nets," she explained.

Schue shook his head, eyes clamped shut. "Orrr, we can show up to provide moral support. That being said, everyone's excused. Go home. Get your homework done, and be back here tonight. The meeting's at six. We'll meet in here at 5:45 so we can all sit together. Of course, I can't make anyone go."

"I'll be there, Mr. Schue," Tina volunteered.

"Me, too."

"Me, too."

Soon they were all in. Will gave them an approving smile. Maybe not so much like pulling teeth after all.

-#-

Blaine laughed weakly into his bluetooth headset as he bent under the hood of the '83 F150 in the back of the garage, and Burt wondered if he really thought he was fooling anyone by going hands-free. Blaine had graduated from oil changes to tune ups and carburetors. He wasn't much help on the newer models. Everything was controlled by computer chips these days, and people who understood the stripped down mechanical working of an internal combustion engine were left in the dust without a couple of years of school to bring them up to snuff on the technology. There were still enough old clunkers on the road to keep the kid busy, though. Technically, Burt's employees weren't allowed phone calls while they worked, but since Blaine wasn't getting paid, he got a free pass. As a result, Burt had overheard a fair number of phone calls between his son and his son's 'sort-of-ex' boyfriend. Sure, he could only hear one end of the conversation, but he heard enough to believe those two were going to be fine.

He was also insanely proud of his son for always answering the phone. It was one thing to say you were going to be there for someone, something else entirely to make yourself available any time of the day or night. Some of these conversations were intense, like, Blaine slouched up against the back of the building with his head buried in his arms and the phone pressed against his ear hard enough to leave a dent, intense, and Kurt always managed to get through to him somehow, which he could not do if he didn't answer the damned phone. So, yeah, Burt was proud.

This conversation hadn't exactly reached critical mass, yet, but it definitely had the potential, so Burt was listening a little more closely than could be considered strictly accidental. Sue him. It was his shop.

And he was a dad. He worried.

"Did I tell you Burt and I are going to dress up as the Skipper and Gilligan for Halloween? You know, because he calls me his little buddy." His shoulders hitched in either a laugh or a stifled sneeze, or just another one of those emotions that bubbled out now and again that Burt knew Blaine couldn't always keep in check. "No-Kurt, I'm not deflecting-Okay, well I am, but that's because I'm done giving those people any more of my time. Besides, aren't you supposed to be the one talking me off the ledge and not the other way around? You're way more worked up about this than I am. I swear. They don't have a leg to stand on." A beat while Kurt obviously refused to let Blaine dismiss his concerns, which they both knew he was doing for Kurt's sake and only because he thought he could get away with it, safely buffered behind the connection of six hundred miles of spotty cell phone coverage. "Besides, it's like I told you the first day we met-prejudice is just ignorance. I can't confront and educate all those people one on one, and I can't run away. So, ready or not, this is not going away. Public forum it is. And your dad's here. If they won't listen to me, I'm sure they'll listen to him."

Another beat. While he had sounded steady and nearly convincing in his sincerity, Burt hadn't missed the way Blaine set down his socket wrench long enough to press his wrists into his eye sockets, or how his throat worked constantly to keep the quaver out of his voice. The kid didn't need a pep talk. He was the king of _talk_. The kid needed a _hug_.

"So tell me about this big city Glee club you've been scoping out." Silence enough for Burt to notice the door on the alley side of the shop open up and a ragtag group of familiar faces slinking in. He couldn't help but shake his head with a smirk and gesture with his coffee cup to where Blaine was now standing on his stool to get all the way to the back of the engine. "No way! How is an acoustic version of 'Baby Got Back' even a thing?" The breath he took was deep enough to completely stretch the back of his coveralls over the tops of his shoulders and entirely too large for the tired chuckle he pushed out with it. "Please tell me you did 'Not the Boy Next Door' and showed them the right way to stop a show."

Sniffling into the back of his sleeve, Blaine missed when Sam cleared his throat to get his attention, but when the wrench slipped out of his hand in the process and clattered to the floor, Blaine practically spun into Tina. He startled visibly then self-consciously turned back around, hand on his earpiece, but not before Burt, and probably the rest of the group, noticed the extra shine in his eyes.

"Uh, Kurt, I gotta go. The whole gang just showed up at the shop. I'll-I'll call you tonight and let you know how it went. Y-yeah, you, too. Bye." He took a little longer than was strictly necessary to remove the earpiece and fold it into the pocket of his coveralls before addressing the group behind him. He must have been using the extra time to decide if it was worthwhile to make himself more presentable and figured the damage had already been done as he did nothing more than run his fingers over his hair, ending with his palm at the back of his neck before he said, "Hey? Guys?"

He was immediately accosted by Tina who threw herself at his chest and wrapped her arms around him with a thud.

"Uh...?" He patted her back hesitantly with a shrug. "Hi, Tina." She was a sobbing mess but stuck out her chin defiantly and drew back pointing at him with one hand on her hip, obviously preparing to give him a piece of her mind just as soon as she could regain her composure.

"Dude!" Sam smacked Blaine on the shoulder. "Schuester told us about the big school board thingie tonight."

With an exaggerated slow motion nod, Blaine took another deep breath, nostrils flared as he obviously tried to camouflage a sniffle before swallowing it down. "And?"

"And why do I have to hear it from Schue instead of from you?" Another smack. "I thought we were bros, bro."

Settling Tina against the grill of the truck he was working on, Blaine folded one arm across his chest, grasping the opposite elbow, and met Burt's gaze through the big window into the office. Burt shrugged, hands deep in his pockets. Sam had a point. There were plenty of people in Blaine's corner if he'd just stop and take a look around instead of trying to be in everyone else's corner all by himself.

"Yeah, man," Artie agreed. "You weren't going to take on the school board and probably half the district on your own, were you?"

"Guys, I appreciate you all coming down here and everything, but you really didn't have to. Really. It's no big deal. Those people are always making noise about something. This time next week, they'll be back to complaining about the pep band playing hip hop at football games and the fact that we pay to keep buses running all year when everyone ends up parked in front of the school to pick up and drop off their kids anyway."

"If it's no big deal, then what's going on with your face here?" Sam asked, thumbing brusquely across Blaine's cheekbone before crossing his arms in defiance, his own eyes brighter than they had been a few seconds ago, "Freak indoor rainstorm?"

"It's nothing," Blaine insisted, flinching away from Sam's reach and ducking his gaze. "Just the meds. It happens sometimes."

"Would you stop!" More an order than a request. "I am not a smart man," which Burt had only ever heard Sam say as Forrest Gump during one of his Friday night after dinner impression fests. Perhaps, he was going for that now, but it came out choked and ended up being just his own voice, breathy and jumbled so badly he had to repeat himself. "I may not be _smart_ , but I'm no idiot either, man. You're not okay, and it really ticks me off that you think you have to pretend that you are. I thought we were closer than that!"

"We are close, Sam," Blaine conceded, refusing to look up.

"You're not S-Superman," Tina finally managed to squeak out, pouting with defiance and probably a little embarrassment that the fake stutter crutch had reappeared.

"Of course not," Brittany pointed out, "He doesn't have his cape."

Blaine finally huffed out some of the tension in his shoulders with a stilted laugh when Brittany draped herself over them.

"Cyclops and Wolverine, man, remember?"

"Wait," Artie interjected, "I have to be Professor Y to avoid copyright infringement, but you two can be Cyclops and Wolverine?"

Brushing at eyes with the backs of hands, they all ducked gazes and laughed weakly at that.

"Seriously, though," Artie added, "I think what everyone's trying to say is X-Men, Justice League, or Secret Society of Superheroes, we all have each other's backs. You can't go all rogue on us. It's in our nature to swoop in and pull you back from the dark side."

"Now, c'mon." Sam beckoned for Blaine to plant a hug on him, which appeared to be no small feat, considering Brittany remained glommed onto Blaine's back. "Okay, now change out of these coveralls, and come with us," he ordered, straightening up.

"Where? I mean, I can't just leave." Blaine extricated himself from his Brittany cape and turned around, gathering tools and oil rags in an effort to straighten up and reorganize. Burt recognized his predicament and came out of the office to take the mess off his hands.

"Sure you can," Burt offered. "We were just about done here, anyway. I have to go home and get changed, and you should probably do the same."

"Schue let us out early so we could finish our homework and get to the meeting, and Finn's back at the choir room rallying the troops," Sam explained. "We're just waiting on our fearless leader to give us a game plan."

"Actually, all this superhero talk has me thinking," Blaine mused, and Burt could sense a little bit of the Warbler front man waking up from his hibernation. "I might have an idea. I just have to call and let my mom know I'm going straight to school from here."

With a pat on the back, Burt nodded. "Good. You go with your friends, and I'll see you in a couple of hours, all right?"

Blaine surprised him by thumping into his chest for a quick hug without looking him in the eyes. "Thanks, Burt."

"Any time, little buddy. I'm just glad you took my advice and got you some friends who aren't a broken down old bald guy with a bad ticker." He waved the group off with something akin to pride blooming in his chest. Say what you would about the youth of today, he thought the world might just have a fighting chance, after all.

-TBC

AN(1): I know that in canon it was Tina that said something like this. I thought it was important to leave it in, to show the callous attitude many people have regarding mental illness, but I did not think Tina would say it, knowing Blaine's diagnosis. Sugar definitely would, especially if she wasn't aware.

AN(2): I'm not sure this scenario could occur in reality without being shut down, but since it's the Glee universe and not reality, I decided to go there.

AN(3): Since Kurt got into NYADA in the Fall, I figure he'd have discovered Adam's Apples then, too. If you're wondering about , it will be mentioned later.


	12. Folding and Unfolded

**AN:** Happy Thanksgiving! Sorry to say this is probably the only update for this week, but I hope you have time to read over the long weekend. I'm not really happy with this chapter, but when I started the story, I had a clear plan for the heart condition plot line. The BP story line inserted itself, and I had to come up with a B story to resolve it, which isn't easy, since BP doesn't go away. It always comes back. Anyway, this is the direction I went with that story line, just because I think that's how our Blaine, Warbler front man and New Rachel, as he is, would deal with it if put in this situation. It's a little 'on the nose.' It's a lot 'on the nose' but I think there are enough people reading this that will appreciate having it said this way. Anyway, it is what it is. There will be more Kurt in the upcoming chapters. Also, I originally had planned not to include Finn in the story too much, because I was afraid to open that can of worms, but then I decided he needs to be there, because he needs a little redemption, too. So, he starts showing up more starting in this chapter. And that's all I have to say about that.

 **AN:** Sorry about all the music in this chapter. I hopefully cited everything accordingly, but if you didn't like the NYADA audition chapter, you will have a hard time with this one, so skip over the lyrics.

Finn couldn't believe the number of people in the hallway. He normally only saw this many after hours if there was a basketball game; even 'West Side Story' only pulled in this big of a crowd on opening night. He ducked into the choir room, having spotted Mr. Schuester slipping in as he made his way back from a brief meetup with his mom and Burt backstage.

"Can you believe they're actually selling concessions out there?" Will's hand was still on the door knob when Finn pulled it open and found him standing on the threshold, somewhat agape at finding the entire Glee club already assembled. A twinge of guilt tickled behind his belly button. He hoped he hadn't overstepped his bounds as a teaching assistant/mentor/dude with nothing better to do in the middle of the afternoon by allowing the kids to work out a number without consulting Mr. Schuester. They'd shown up with some fire lit under their collective feet, and Blaine sparking in a way that Finn hadn't seen in months, and well, Finn just went with it.

He'd watched Kurt mope around the house for half the summer, the first half of that spent constantly rubbing and pressing a palm into that bruise on the side of his neck that he'd suddenly lost the motivation to cover up, clinging to the ghost of something he wasn't ready to let go, and pretending he had allergies that flared up at odd times-while Pink was blaring from the stereo so loud Finn's drum set vibrated on its own at the other end of the hall, in the kitchen while sliding the umpteenth dozen cookies off the baking sheet and onto the counter with shaking hands, and while sitting through an entire baseball game on the end of the sofa, scrunched so far down into the couch it practically swallowed him up while he clenched a pillow over his chest without making single comment about the spitting and crotch grabbing the camera never managed to pan away from fast enough. Since Kurt left and school started back up, Finn had watched Blaine do a fair job of keeping up his pocket rocket persona in the halls and the choir room, winning Class President and donning his spandex superhero costume, but he also spent plenty of time at the garage and knew Blaine was besieged by the same unrelenting 'allergies'. Blaine a little wired and driven could be unnerving, but it beat the alternative.

"Of course," Blaine piped in, a hint of a growl in his tone. "The freak show's in town. Nothing goes better with watching a crazy kid have a meltdown than popcorn and chili dog. The Booster Club couldn't possibly pass up the opportunity to sell some sodas to fund the football team's new custom molded mouth guards," Blaine mused darkly from the piano bench.

"Blaine! I didn't realize you were already here." Schue planted a hand on Blaine's shoulder before he added, "Look, I'm sorry about this whole situation. Let me apologize on behalf of all the calm, rational people of this town for the way this has all gone down."

"Don't, Mr. Schue. It's not your fault. And thanks for filling everyone else in. Otherwise, I'd probably just be stumbling out there with no game plan and end up giving everyone the show they came to see."

"And now?" Will gandered around the room, a curious squint to his eyes as he noted the students huddled together in groups concentrating on the wrinkled pieces of notebook paper Blaine had scribbled lyrics on.

"Don't worry, Mr. Schue," Sam piped in. "We got this."

"We've got the stage in the auditorium all set up and everything," Tina added. "No way we're letting our boy go out there alone."

"That's right!" the rest of the group confirmed.

"You didn't happen to see my brother out there, did you?" Blaine's worker bee persona slipped infinitesimally, letting in something a little desperate to paint the color of his voice as he craned around on the piano bench to question Finn.

"Sorry, no, I didn't," Finn apologized. "Mom and Burt said they were keeping an eye out."

Will jumped in. "Hey, th-that doesn't mean he's not out there. It wouldn't be hard to miss someone in that crowd," he huffed. "It's a real madhouse out th..." He broke off and shook his head. "And I'm not helping at all, am I?"

Blaine banged out a chord progression that he tamped down by stomping the foot pedal with more force than appeared necessary, before he stood up, scrubbing his hands down the front of his pants. He coughed an 'excuse me' into a fist and clapped Will on the shoulder, then brushed past, his voice cracking slightly as he addressed the rest of the group.

"So, you guys know what to do. I guess we should probably head to the auditorium. I'm supposed to meet Burt backstage in a few minutes, so..." he seemed to notice his own hand shaking now that it didn't have the piano to ground itself out on, and quickly interlocked his fingers into a straight-armed self-cocoon, twisting slightly left and right, as he cleared his throat for about the third time in the past minute. Not knowing what exactly was going on beneath the surface, Finn approached Blaine like he couldn't decide if it was appropriate to touch him even though anyone could see he needed a hug right then.

Sam directed the rest of the group to go ahead and take it to the stage by shrugging his chin toward the door but kept his eyes fixed on Blaine as he paced back to the piano, pressing a knuckle into the underside of his jaw as if to force his gaze forward and up.

Brittany raised her arms in the air, and twirled around for attention, "Jake, Ryder, Mercedes, and all you other crowd plants follow me so we can sit together. New Directions, holla!" Obviously concerned about keeping some decorum of respect, Will's eyebrows shot up, and he hurried out behind the group stammering something about correct meeting etiquette and parliamentary process.

Only Sam hung back, his eyes on Finn's as he spoke. "Blaine."

Sam's voice seemed to break Blaine from his thoughts, and he stopped in his tracks.

"Hmm?"

"Dude, you know this whole group's got your back, but you gotta keep it real for me." Finn nodded to Sam and dismissed himself from the conversation by stepping to the other side of the piano, trying to look casual in the way he leaned against it.

"Sure. Sam. What?" Blaine's words came out clipped, and even though his eyebrows raised, eyes wide open, there was something closed off about the rest of him.

"I know you said that you're okay with all this and ready to take on the town's prejudice in the name of being the bigger person, or whatever, but I know you. Okay? And you're not okay. Okay?"

"Okay?"

Sam smiled weakly, aware that he'd set his own word trap but willing to chew off his own proverbial leg to keep Blaine from turning the conversation around on him.

"That wasn't a question," he asserted. Then, second guessing, knit his brows, "Or it was, but... Dude, what's going on with you? Straight up, okay?"

Blaine exhaled, and Finn noted that it vibrated all the way out. This was the point where Blaine usually dropped a wrench or banged his head on the underside of a car hood and had to excuse himself to the back room where Finn knew he usually called Kurt or just sat until Burt offered him a ride home.

"Okay, well, you're not entirely wrong," Blaine granted, "I'm a little overwhelmed and maybe a touch 'up' right now, but the fact that I know that means I'm as close to okay as I can expect, you know, under the circumstances."

"So what can I do?" Sam blurted. "I mean, I know you usually run off somewhere and call Kurt, but I'm here now."

"And that's all you need to do," Blaine assured, his smile genuine this time. "Just like the Switchfoot song you were just singing. That's enough."

"But I don't want to be enough. I want to make it better." Now Sam was the one on the brink of tears, and Finn could empathize. He also knew when someone needed a hug the best way to go about it was to just give 'em the damned hug-or pick up the drum sticks, put on the oven mitts, and call the pitcher out on being a poorly groomed heathen in stirrup pants. "What would Kurt do right now?"

Blaine seemed to chew on the question for a second, obviously not sure whether to share something so private, but then he shrugged, clapping his hands flat together in front of himself, "He'd-" hands spread and mouth working in an expression that suggested he was at a total loss before he finally dropped his gaze, "He'd ask me what song is in my head right now."

"So what song _is_ playing in your head right now?"

Blaine thought for a second, his eyes closed, and then his face flushed to a deep red as he spit out, "Damien Rice's 'Rootless Tree.'"

Sam obviously didn't know it, but Finn did, recalling both Kurt and Blaine scrambling to skip that track if it happened to shuffle on while their parents were in the room. There wasn't an argument for artistic integrity written that could talk them out of the repercussions for playing a song with that many F-bombs in it. Thinking on it, though, that song did seem to fit the situation perfectly. No way would it go over as anything other than a catastrophe, however, if he so much as breathed it in front of the school board and most of Lima, Ohio.

"Okaaaay," Sam stammered, "And that would make you, what?"

"Honestly?" Blaine sniped. "Pissed off. Like I don't have enough to deal with already without having the whole town stick their noses into my business, you know?"

"Yeah, man! You know it! And if I were Kurt, I bet I'd tell you..." his voice went up at the end, obviously inviting Blaine to fill in the blank.

"That anger is a normal response, and I'm completely justified in feeling it."

"Buuuut..." Again with the leading tone.

"But I can be angry and not be irrational. I don't have to let them push my buttons. _**I**_ am better than that."

"Totally."

"Yeah, you are," Finn added with a pat on the back, realizing he had to start herding them out the door if they didn't want to be late.

"Wow, dude," Sam said with a shake of his head, "I take back what I said about not 'getting' Kurt, because He. Is. Awesome. Seriously, why did you guys break up again?"

"We're not broken up. We're just on a break."

Confused, Sam tilted his head, ignoring the way Finn shook his, one eye squinted almost shut, "Which is code for...?"

"For..." Blaine's shoulders drooped and he rolled his eyes as if he'd just been caught in a ruse of some sort, "I need time to work on me before I can work on us."

"Work on yourself?" Taken aback, Sam grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him face to face. "You're not getting like pec implants or something? Because you're totally smokin' already." His eyes went wide and he released Blaine's shoulder as if his fingerprints might melt off. "I mean, in a totally objective bro to bro not gay outside perspective kind of way."

"No, dude, I get what you meant," Blaine blinked, nonplussed. "Um, my therapist might have suggested that I give all the emotional power away in my relationships and don't take care of my own needs. And my mom and Cooper might agree with her."

"And you needed a therapist to tell you that?"

Uh, yeah, Finn was not stepping into that muck pile. Instead he grimaced into his palm and didn't bother trying not to look uncomfortable.

Blaine seemed to be as near the verge of a full body squirm as Finn and dropped the topic. "Anyway, I'm working on that, not getting pec implants-although, there is this medical contraption my doctor keeps bugging me about for my heart condition, but that's beside the point-and I fully expect that Kurt and I will come out the other side of this separation stronger than ever. As for tonight, obviously Kurt is not here, but you guys don't have to worry," Blaine concluded by patting him on the shoulder. "Burt's here, and he's ready in the wings to keep me from shooting myself in the foot out there. Which I'm sure I won't, now that I have everyone in my corner."

"Speaking of," Finn checked his watch abruptly before the conversation could go off the rails in the direction of revealing entirely too much information, "The meeting's about to start. We need to get out there."

"Show must go on," Blaine sighed and let Finn guide him out the door with an arm across his shoulders.

"Oh, come on," Sam teased, "You can do better than that."

With a big grin, Blaine took in a huge breath and wailed along with Sam's low slung hip air guitar, "Show must go o-o-on!" They finished on a theatrically overly drawn out run that left them both out of breath and chuckling to themselves as they stepped into the auditorium.

-#-

Sue sat in the back of the auditorium, sprawled in her aisle seat to prevent anyone from trying to sit next to her and block the camera she had planted behind the last row. She wasn't really sure what she expected to catch on film, but creative editing being what it was, there was bound to be something incriminating to be made out of what was about to transpire. Contrary to popular-or at least Will Schuester's-belief, she'd had nothing to do with lighting this particular fire. She had it on good authority that it was actually one of the other mechanics down at Hummel Tires and Lube that tipped the school board about the questionable mental stability of the reigning student council president. She'd seen the obviously illegal cell phone video they sent in and knew that only someone who was looking to condemn would've interpreted that kid shaking, rambling, and dropping tools as a drug-fueled freak out. But heck, she'd been tossing kids across the hall for years and convincing everyone it was entirely accidental. People saw what they wanted to see. She, herself, had no qualms with the wee Warbler other than the rumors that he'd split with Porcelain and broken his precious designer label heart. For this once, she was planning to keep an open mind and let the video evidence speak for itself.

If someone watched that video evidence and managed to convince themselves that Congressman Burt Hummel was not only the unpopular spokesperson for gay rights amongst the ultra conservatives but also somehow in cahoots with a blossoming teenage future Unabomber in the making, then so be it.

She had to admit, the turnout for this district meeting very nearly rivaled the attendance of the last actual performance staged in that auditorium. Nothing like the numbers her Cheerios brought in, of course. They needed the whole gymnasium for that crowd, and yes, she firmly believed that even the away team's bleachers were filled with closet Cheerios fans. No one really jumped on a bus in the middle of an Ohio winter to see their own basketball players run up and down the court in an opposing school's gym. It was and always would be about the cheerleaders.

Her attention returned to the situation at hand as the auditorium lights flickered to indicate the meeting was coming to order.

And then it drifted again. She was the master of double speak and spinning facts into fiction, and this fiasco was obviously half-baked from the get-go. Plus, it turned out that unless she had a personal agenda, she really couldn't be bothered to care. She was intrigued, however, at the number of students in attendance. Students never attended school board meetings. In fact, the pool of parents that regularly attended these things was usually limited to a select and not slightly overbearing group of drama club stage moms, football dads, and well-to-dos who were looking for something to throw tax deductible money at while simultaneously paving the way for their less than over-achieving spawn to succeed.

These things weren't always such a waste of time. In fact, after that scare in Chicago, Sue had successfully lobbied for and received two more external defibrillator devices to be positioned around the campus. It made no sense to her that the only one they had was in the fieldhouse when there were equally strenuous physical activities going on within the building every day.

But this? This was a joke. From what she could gather, these people were somehow under the delusion that mental illness in the student population increased the risk of violence to other students. Just from her own very short stint as Principal, she knew this to be untrue, but people needed someplace to put their hostility, and this pot had been thoroughly stirred. She'd hand it to Congressman Hummel, though, he had his facts straight, though she wondered how well he'd maintain his calm, rational tone if he knew all of this started in his own place of business.

She tuned back in as Burt seemed to be on the verge of wrapping up his spiel, and behind him, much to Sue's chagrin, the stage was being overrun with New Directions members.

"I feel like, before I turn the microphone over to the next speaker, I should reveal that I consider this young man to be part of my family, and what's being said against him in this forum, I take personally. Believe me when I say that when I found out what was going on here, I had a few more choice words that I wanted to use, but Blaine was the one who convinced me to let the facts speak for themselves and let him do the rest." Burt took a step to the side of the microphone and turned so he could see Blaine seated at the piano, a half-circle of risers full of seated glee club members positioned around him. "And while it breaks my heart that he feels like he has to come out here and address this crowd when he has done absolutely nothing wrong, I think he's probably right. Maybe what really needs to happen here is for all of us to stop talking _about_ these kids and start talking _to_ them. So, with that, I turn the floor over to Mr. Blaine Anderson...uh... and friends."

As a single spotlight illuminated the figure at the piano behind him, Burt backed away, clapping, and a chorus of catcalls rose from the group of students bunched together in the center of the auditorium. Despite it being too dark for anyone in the audience to notice, Sue couldn't contain an eyeroll as the piano came to life under Anderson's fingertips. Would these overly dramatic teen celebrity wannabes ever learn that no one would take them seriously if they continued to insist on addressing everything in song? The world just did not work that way. She glanced behind her to make sure the camera was rolling, convinced she was about to get another viral addition to her fail blog as Blaine began to sing.

 _(_ _ **Superman-Five For Fighting**_ _)_

 _I can't stand to fly_

 _I'm not that naïve_

 _I'm just tryin' to find_

 _A better part of me_

 _I'm more than a bird_

 _More than a plane_

 _More than some pretty face beside a train_

 _And it's not easy_

 _To be... me_.

Oh, puh-lease, Sue couldn't believe he was actually throwing himself a pity party right there in front of Lima, Ohio and everyone. Was he not aware that most people-most people being Sue and everyone intelligent enough to be of like mind-already thought this generation was just a bunch of whiny, self-centered, over-privileged, attention mongers? Was he really out to prove them right? Ah, the video commentary was writing itself.

A second spotlight highlighted part of the group in the risers beside the piano. Kitty and the Asian girl belted out a song with very few words other than 'la,' a true testament to the mental capacity and attention span bestowed by a curriculum in the arts, while Wheels and the kid with a moose knuckle for a mouth sang something that managed to be both jaunty and depressing at the same time. Neither were songs Sue was familiar with, but she was sure she'd turn up something offensive about them in her Google search later that evening.

 _ **(Life is Wonderful-Jason Mraz**_ and _**Jesus Christ-Brand New)**_

 _Ha la la la la la la life is wonderful_ **(And I-I-I-I, Will di-i-i-ie, all alone)**

 _Ah la la la la la la life goes full circle_ **(When I-I-I-I, arri-i-i-ive, I won't know anyone)**

Did these pretentious Gleeks actually expect them to believe that they had so much of import to say that not only could they not say it in one song but they couldn't at least say it in separate bullet points without always mashing things together? They did know that the human brain was actually only capable of processing one thing at a time, did they not?

The spotlight went out above the four in the risers, but they continued to sing in silhouette as another spot appeared above that lunch lady's cute-as-a-button-couldn't-hate-her-no-matter-how-much-you-tried daughter.

 **(Lithium-Evanescence)**

 **I can't hold on to me**

 _Ah la la la la la la life is so full of (Will I-I-I-I divi-i-i-i-ide and fall apart)_

 **Wonder what's wrong with me**

 _Ah la la la la la la life is so rough (My bri-i-i-ight is too sli-i-i-ight to hold back all my dark)_

Sue couldn't help but squirm a little. If prompted, she could claim it was because the substandard seating provided was aggravating her sciatica, but if she was honest, the vibration creeping up her spine started so much deeper. She wished they would, for the love of God, get to the point already.

 **Don't want to let it lay me down this time**

 **Drown my will to fly**

 **Here in the darkness I know myself**

 **Can't break free until I let it go**

 **Let me go**

That spot faded until once again there was just the one above the piano, and Blaine pounded the keys with a ferocity that matched the intensity of the unease clawing at the back of Sue's skull.

 _Up, up, and away, away from me_

 _Well it's all right_

 _You can all sleep sound tonight_

The music stopped abruptly, but Blaine continued, mouth pressed to the microphone.

 _I'm not crazy or anything_

Sue looked around with something that hedged on self-consciousness as she let out a sigh of relief at the conclusion of that particular fiasco, but the rest of the room appeared to be holding its collective breath as silence blanketed the auditorium for torturous seconds that felt like hours until it was finally broken by the group of students in the center aisle as they stood up and cheered. The applause was hardly thunderous, but it was probably more than they deserved. This wasn't a concert, after all. Typical of this particular group to attempt to deflect, obfuscate, and inveigle when the American people wanted straightforward answers. Thunderous or not, the clapping bought the tiny pianist an opportunity to collect himself and clear his throat before addressing the crowd.

"Uh, good evening, everyone. In case we haven't met, my name's Blaine Anderson. I hope you'll," he cleared his throat, a little too harshly, perhaps, "um, excuse me for not standing." He rubbed his hands over his thighs without getting up from the piano bench, adopting a slight turn toward the audience. "I'm feeling just a little bit overwhelmed at the moment, which I'm sure you can understand. This," he gestured to the keyboard and the immediate vicinity with sweep of his arms, "is kind of my safe space, so as long as everyone can see and hear just fine, I think I'll stay here. Is that okay with everyone?" He nodded, suggestively, "Yes? Okay? Um, great!" He clapped his hands together and sat up a little straighter.

"So, brief introduction, and what you're all here to find out about, I guess. I'm a senior here, Student Council president, Glee club, Secret Society of Superheroes, closeted Star Wars fan, uncloseted gay man, and recently diagnosed, as in, less than six months ago, with Bipolar Disorder. I'm not here to say whether your concerns are founded or unfounded. I think Bur-uh, Congressman Hummel, already relayed the facts, and frankly that's all I know on the subject. What I am here to do is answer any of your questions about my experience living with mental illness, and I have to do that with the preface that this is only my own somewhat limited experience and what I've found through research and talking with my therapist and my doctors." He tilted his head, mouth very close to the microphone, a little Stevie Wonder-esque but also kind of endearing as he invited the audience with his eyes, "With that, are there any questions?"

The first question came from the school board president himself. "Yes, uh, I would like to know how you were diagnosed. I mean, aren't all teenagers a little uh...moody?"

Sue offered a silent Amen and noted the nodding heads in the auditorium around her.

A nervous, toothy laugh and Blaine rubbed the back of his neck, eyebrows raised before answering, head tilted so he could address the man eye to eye. "Wow. Is that two questions, or should I consider that second part rhetorical?"

"It was, actually. Very astute of you to point that out."

Blaine pulled one knee across the bench so he could turn more fully to face the crowd and held it there with one hand on the ankle where it pressed into his opposite thigh. "Not all mental illness is particularly easy to nail down. For me, I was diagnosed with Depression twice before they pinned down my Bipolar."

"Excuse me," a woman in a cream colored business suit that Sue noted was wearing enough red lipstick to rival Bozo the clown spoke up from beside the original questioner, "I don't mean to interrupt, but how do you get diagnosed twice for the same thing?"

Blaine leaned a little forward over his bent leg, face open. "That's a legitimate question. Um, the first time I was diagnosed with Depression, there was a lot going on in my life that led everyone to believe-or maybe hope is the better term-that it was probably situational. I had just come out as gay and was," he coughed into his hand, "uh, bashed at a school dance which resulted in me missing several months of school and having to transfer to Dalton academy. I wasn't able to catch up to the curriculum there and ended up repeating my freshman year, and my dad got sent overseas with Doctors Without Borders while I was still recovering from that. So,long story short, there was plenty of reason for me to be depressed and none to suggest there was more to it than that. I was treated with therapy and medication until everyone, including myself, felt like I had turned the corner and then went off the medication."

"I did well for a while but then I was diagnosed with a heart condition this past school year which resulted in me having to give up two of my favorite outlets-dancing and boxing-and my favorite vice-coffee." He laughed. "I could really use a cup right about now, too."

Surprisingly some of the crowd must have sympathized based on the murmur of concurring chuckles. At that point, they'd all been sitting in the auditorium for over thirty minutes and could use a little pick me up.

"Anyway," Blaine continued, "I thought I was handling it all right, but my mom and my brother noticed I really wasn't happy, not as happy as I should have been considering I had an amazing boyfriend that I'd been with for over a year, at that point, and our show choir had just won nationals. They convinced me to go back and talk to my psychiatrist, who then diagnosed me as Major Depressive." He shrugged, "And that's how I got diagnosed twice for almost the same thing."

"And the Bipolar Disorder?" The first questioner again.

Blaine leaned back a little, pulling his ankle up closer to his body. "That one was kind of hairy," he huffed somewhere between a mirthless laugh and a sigh. "So, it turns out that if you're diagnosed as depressed and prescribed antidepressants but are actually bipolar, the antidepressants can trigger a manic episode. And, as it turns out, when I have a manic episode, I… make really poor decisions." He laughed again, this time almost convincingly, "That's what my doctor calls it," he clarified, "really poor decisions."

"Such as?" The same questioner again.

"I _decided_ that even though I wasn't allowed to box anymore, I could just hit the speed bag a little, and I'd be okay. One of the signs of mania is feeling a little superhuman, like you can do things you really can't. In this case, I thought I was able to control my heart condition. So, I proceeded to hit the bag for so long and so hard that I nearly put myself into full cardiac arrest. If Finn and uh, Mr. Schue hadn't found me when they did, I would have died." He got quiet as did the rest of the auditorium. "So, yeah, that was a pretty poor decision on my part, and that's how I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder."

"And you were hospitalized for that condition, correct?" the president pressed.

Blaine nodded, slow then quick, his gaze dropping to where his thumb rubbed over his exposed ankle bone. "I spent a day in the hospital getting my heart rhythm stabilized and monitored, and that's when my diagnosis changed to Bipolar. A week later I voluntarily checked myself into Columbus Springs."

"Is that standard procedure?"

"I don't know that there is such a thing as 'standard' when it comes to mental illness. I know that, in my case, it was necessary because I was already on heart medication, and several of the meds in the class that they normally use to treat mood disorders have known interactions with beta blockers. Everyone felt it would be best to stabilize in an environment where they were equipped to monitor my heart condition and to provide medical intervention in the event that it was adversely affected. Not everyone has to be hospitalized while adjusting to medication, but not everyone also has a heart condition."

"I see. So, are you, I believe the term you used was 'stabilized,' then? Do you still have manic episodes like the one you described?"

Blaine seemed to consider the questions and implications equally, eyes downcast as he chose his words. "Well, yes, yes, and no," he finally replied. "Yes, I'm responding to my current medications well, but I can still be triggered into a manic episode, say if I don't get enough sleep. But no, the episodes I currently have are not like the ones I had before I started treatment."

"How so?"

Blaine sat up a little straighter, the picture of casual as though they were old comrades. "Well, for instance, I had an episode a while back where I suddenly decided to sign up for every single student club at McKinley and joined the race for Student Council President all in one day." He laughed. "At the time, I really thought I could do all of that and be good at all of it. But then, because of my medication and the awareness I've developed in therapy, I was able to take a step back and realize that it was really not possible. I panicked a little, because I felt like not being able to do what I signed up for was breaking a commitment and letting people down, even though I hadn't actually met any of these people yet. Then I went down to the tire shop, changed the oil on Burt's old truck so I had something to do with my hands while we had a little discussion, and I figured out what I felt was important and could humanly manage. I found a balance, I think."

"What did you choose?" The woman this time, and the way she smiled suggested she'd possibly missed the part where he clearly stated he was gay. The woman needed to get a grip.

Obviously a charmer, Blaine returned a toothy grin, eyes crinkling. "Student Council President, obviously, because I felt like that gave me the most opportunity to make a difference; Glee Club, of course, because music is always my first love and also very cathartic for me; and then I decided none of the other clubs really gave me the opportunity to express exactly what I needed to express, so I started my own-the Secret Society of Superheroes."

The president scoffed knowingly. "Isn't that the one where students parade around in ridiculous costumes and pretend to have superpowers? I fail to see the relevancy of such a distraction. Do you really think McKinley students benefit from that break in reality?"

Apparently not perturbed, Blaine's grin morphed into a more serious expression, the crinkle in the corners of his eyes sandwiched instead between his brows. "Yes, we do dress up and pretend to have superpowers, and yes I do think students benefit. I know I do, because I know that I sometimes get overwhelmed in my everyday life with impossible standards and expectations. I worry about letting people down and never being good enough-which I'm working on, by the way. For me, the biggest motivator in creating the Society was to help me take a step back from my regular life and take a different perspective. I can put on the costume and do all the things I wish I had time for in my regular life, the kind of things everyone thinks they'll do as soon as they get their own life in order but never really do," he pontificated with his hand in the air, "like organize a food drive and clean up some graffiti. But then, I can take off the costume, realize that I'm just a normal guy, and let go of some of those expectations that I can never meet. Well, that, and it's really fun." That toothy grin again. "Sometimes we need to give ourselves permission to do that, too, even if we need to put on a costume to do it."

The school board president conceded with a nod. "Well, enough. As long as you're aware you're not really superheroes."

"Well, yeah. We're not _all_ crazy."

"Ooh, snap!" Becky Jackson, God love her, and Sue had to hide her own amusement behind a cupped hand.

"Thanks Queen Bee," Blaine grinned, nodding to Becky in the front row.

"I love you, Gay Blaine!" As she reached up her sleeve with a shimmy, apparently ready to throw her bra on the stage, Blaine leapt up and rushed to the edge of the stage.

Sliding to his knees, he exclaimed, "Whoooah, not that kind of show," and offered her his hand in doing so, forcing her to abandon her up sleeve treasure hunt in order to take it. He then kissed the back of her hand with a flourish in true gentleman fashion before raising it in the air.

"Ladies and Gentleman, we have a celebrity in the audience tonight. Miss Becky Jackson, Captain of the Cheerios."

Confused applause sprinkled through the crowd as Becky did her best Miss America wave, smiling broadly. Sue couldn't help herself. She stood up and whistled, clapping wildly, only half of which was for Becky who admittedly sometimes needed someone to protect her dignity, the other half for anyone willing to protect it. Unless, of course, Becky was an ingenious audience plant, a role Sue knew from experience she was more than willing to accept for a price. Either way, some of the tension in the air was broken, and Sue's sciatica appreciated the opportunity to stand up.

Still contemplating whether the wee Warbler really had the foresight to plant a distraction in the crowd, though she suspected he was way too uptight for that, Sue caught glimpse of a pair of men arriving late through one of the side doors, their figures barely illuminated by the glow of the EXIT sign above it. She was ready to resume her sprawl and protect her row of seats, when something about the taller of the two caught her attention, and the next thing she knew she was standing in the aisle and ushering them in beside her. It was the least she could do, after all, for the man willing to sign her breast. How had she forgotten that the most handsome man in America was, in fact, tiny Sal Mineo's older brother? She didn't recognize the man he was with, but he had a disheveled look to him, hair in tight but unruly curls as though he hadn't had access to a decent barber in ages, and at least a few hours more than a five o'clock shadow bristling over his jaw.

Cooper leaned into Sue as Becky Jackson took her seat again, and the rest of the crowd settled. "What's he doing?" he asked her.

"Deflecting, I think," she shrugged.

As if he caught her vibe, Blaine stood in front of the piano once more and addressed the audience. "All right, then, back to business. I appreciate the opportunity to address the school board as they field everyone's thoughts and concerns, but to be honest, I'd be interested in hearing from you all directly as well. Does anyone in the audience have questions for me?"

A few tentative hands raised, only to half-mast for the most part, and Blaine picked out one at a time using the whole stage for the first time since the meeting started, obviously more at home in his skin than before. After fielding what felt like basically the same questions the school board had already asked but decidedly more pointed, he straightened up and huffed into the handheld microphone. "Well, okay. My turn. This is for all of you. By show of hands, how many of you are here tonight because someone told you they let a crazy kid go to school here, fresh out of the looney bin, and that I might go off my meds and shoot the place up someday?"

He nodded as more than half the people in the audience raised their hands, his entire presence deflating slightly. "I see. And can I assume, then, that pretty much every question is going to be some variation on 'how dangerous am I, really'?"

The transpiring murmur seemed to confirm his suspicions. Sue mentally kicked herself for allowing Cooper and his companion to sit in front of her camera, because she was sure something or someone was about to come unhinged.

"Y'know," Blaine finally ventured, head tilted down as he peered up at the audience from beneath his ridiculously expressive eyebrows, "I get it. Fear makes people irrational, and people are most afraid of what they don't understand. That's why I'm here. Because I'm scared, too, but unlike all of you, I had to educate myself. You're all afraid because you've heard bits and pieces of information, some of which isn't even true, and you've made your own conclusions based on that. But let me tell you, I have spent hours researching and in therapy talking with people who know the facts. I've been living in this diagnosis for months now, and knowing what I know now, I am absolutely positive that there's no one in this room more terrified about what this means than I am."

He let that sink in as he strolled across the stage and re-took his seat at the piano.

"So, let's all just take a step back here and recognize that none of us are okay with this right now. We're all afraid, just for different reasons. I know what all of you are scared of. You've voiced that pretty clearly. I think it's only fair, since I did come here voluntarily to address your concerns, that you take a few minutes to understand mine."

Fixing the microphone back into its holder so he had to turn his head slightly to talk into it in order to see the audience, his hands began to pick out a quiet melody, something in a minor key that Sue didn't readily recognize.

"I'm scared, too," he offered. "I'm scared that I might end up one of the 15% of people with Bipolar Disorder who die by their own hand or one of the 50% who attempts it at least once." A few more bars of music, and the lights dimmed, spotlights appearing once again to illuminate the others on the stage that had almost been forgotten.

( _ **Full of Grace-Sarah McLachlan**_ )

 _The winter here's cold and bitter_

 _It's chilled us to the bone_

 _We haven't seen the sun for weeks_

 _Too long, too far from home_

"Oh, Blainey." Cooper slouched in the seat beside her, a hand rubbing over the stubble on his chin as the Asian girl and the mousey one sang.

"And I say that not because I've ever considered it," a slight stutter in the music, "... not seriously, but because I can understand why someone would. Because I understand how it feels to one day be so full of inspiration and motivation, feeling like I can do anything knowing that tomorrow breathing might be the hardest work I've ever done."

 _I feel just like I'm sinking_

 _And I claw for solid ground_

 _I'm pulled down by the undertow_

 _I never thought I could feel so low_

"Because I can understand how someone might one day be motivated to keep that tomorrow from coming."

 _Oh, darkness, I feel like letting go_

"But I'm working on that," Blaine continued as the music changed through a series of progressions. "Every day I work on being more aware of how I feel and why I feel that way, whether it's founded and rational or just the sickness wearing me down."

( _ **Breathe Me-Sia**_ )

 _Ouch, I have lost myself again_

 _Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found_

 _Yeah, I think that I might break_

 _Lost myself again and I feel unsafe_

Sue didn't know whether it was Kitty's voice or the lyrics, but goosebumps sprang up under the polyester of her track suit.

"And now I'm starting to realize how extremely lucky I am." Blaine laughed a little mirthlessly, his fingers never faltering as they worked through another progression into another song. "Because I got help. I'm getting help. It's out there, but I had to ask for it. And that took a lot of courage, because..." and he paused abruptly, turning on his bench to better face the crowd. "Look around you. Would you admit something was wrong if you knew you might have to face something like this?" The same dark laugh. "Admittedly, this is worst case scenario. It's a little hard for me to believe we actually got to this point. I mean, maybe on the Fox network, or even the CW... but..."

His hand went to the microphone and he took it from its holder, straddling the bench once more. "Look, this doesn't go away on its own. I need help. I go to therapy. I take my medication, because it helps me. What really blows my mind and scares me more than anything is that anywhere from 35 to 50% of people who have severe mental illness are not getting treated or worse, are self-medicating with alcohol, drugs, sex, any number of other things they use to make themselves feel better, because they are afraid of... this." And he makes a gesture to indicate everything about the current situation. "Because it's more socially acceptable to be drunk than medicated. Because we accept getting high and 'hooking up' as just part of being young and ignore that for at least one in five of those young people, it's not about having fun; it's about using something to make them not feel terrible anymore, pretending there are no consequences for that." Blaine huffed into the microphone. "What does it say about the world we live in when you think dressing up as superheroes is breaking from reality and that taking medication creates a false reality, but you think getting drunk, or high, or hooking up, isn't hurting anyone?"

Blaine turned back to the piano, his hand shaking slightly as he pressed the microphone back into its holder. "If going to therapy and taking my medication helps me see and understand what's going on with me and not the version of reality that everyone else seems to accept, then I'm okay with that. Not only am I okay with that, but I consider myself exceedingly blessed to have friends like these who are willing to dive into the darkness with me."

( _ **Colorblind-Counting Crows**_ )

 _I am covered in skin_

 _No one gets to come in_

 _Pull me out from inside_

 _I am folded and unfolded and unfolding_

 _I am_ ...

( _ **Let That Be Enough-Switchfoot**_ )

 _(..._ _ **colorblind**_ _)I feel so defeated_

 _And I'm feeling alone_

Sam Evans and Artie Abrams had apparently been shirking their schoolwork in favor of working out some invisible cue as they blended a new song in with the one Blaine was already singing, their voices and the music coming together with practiced precision.

 _And it all seems so helpless_

 _And I have no plans_

 _I'm a plane in the sunset(_ _ **I am folded and unfolded and unfolding**_ _)_

 _With nowhere to land (_ _ **I am...**_ _)_

 _(._ _ **..colorblind**_ _)_

 _(_ _ **small and needy**_ _)_

 _(_ _ **full of grace, my love**_ _)_

Sue's skin started to crawl again as bits and pieces of all the songs punched to the forefront, each one breaking in and fading out again while the rest lingered in the background, never truly dying out. Beside her, she thought she heard sniffling then a minor commotion as Cooper's guest started to rise from his chair only to be pushed back down.

"Dad! Let him finish." Startled, Sue turned to look at the pair beside her. She leaned back in appraisal trying to spot some family resemblance. Huh. She supposed it was there, if you looked past the older guy's obviously overbaked tan and hazel eyes, but she never would've guessed otherwise. She squinted past the two of them into the darkness wondering if perhaps Alice or the white rabbit might pop out of the woodwork next. Curiouser and curiouser, indeed.

 _If all of the strength_

 _And all of the courage_

 _Come and lift me from this place_

 _(_ _ **I am ready, I am ready, I am ready, I am...**_ _)_

 _I know I could love you much better than this_

 _Let me know that you hear me_

 _(_ _ **I am small and needy**_ _)_

 _Let me know your touch_

 _(_ _ **Wrap me up and breathe me**_ _)_

 _Let me know that you love me_

 _(_ _ **I am folded and unfolded and unfolding I am...**_ _)_

 _Let that be enough_

 _(_ _ **I ...am ...fine**_ _)_

"Clearly he isn't," a voice from beside Sue followed by a the sound of an auditorium chair flipping up into the closed position, then being pushed back down again as whoever vacated it was pulled back down.

"He won't be if you jump out at him now. At least let him finish," Cooper admonished.

Funny, Sue could have sworn the other guy was the dad in that relationship. Sensing a bubbling cauldron in need of just a smidge more heat, Sue gestured to the stage where this guy's wayward progeny sat in the last lone spotlight with his head tilted down, staring at his own fingers as he seemed to be composing himself. As Sue saw it, and Lord knew everyone cared how Sue saw it, the kid had made his point. He needed to be stopped before people got bored and agitated.

"Actually, that looks like a kid who needs his father." She wasn't lying. What emotionally unstable, overly dramatic, though notably pint-sized kid didn't need his daddy? Oooh, she'd just stumbled across yet another clever epithet for the wee Warbler. Half pint. Of course. Why hadn't she thought of that sooner? She stood up and offered an open exit to the aisle. When Cooper refused to budge, his dad stepped over the back of the seat instead, nodding at Sue as he passed her.

On the stage, the half pint cleared his throat and leaned into the microphone again, his voice rough. "I think that's all I had to say, and I want to thank everyone for having me. So!" He cleared his throat one last time as the lights came up in the auditorium. "Any final..." The microphone crackled as his stomach heaved in and out with each exaggerated breath, his eyes suddenly wide and glassy.

"Blaine?" By now Mr. Anderson had made his way down the aisle to just behind the front row where he was clearly illuminated by the floor lights.

"D-dad?" Blaine's throat convulsed around his Adam's apple, teeth clenched as he lurched up from his bench, turning it over in the process.

From the risers, Sam Evans leapt to his feet and nearly tripped over the rest of the group in his haste to reach the piano before Blaine turned and ran off the stage. Instead he was left standing there alone where he fidgeted and waved once before quirking his mouth and announcing, "Soylent green is people!"

Charlton Heston, he wasn't, but there were enough old farts in the room to recognize the quote. A smattering of applause and weak chuckling broke out, the tension officially broken.

The school board president cast an accusatory glance at Mr. Anderson before ducking down to his microphone. "Well, then, that will conclude this emergency forum. We hope we addressed everyone's concerns. The board will look over the minutes and determine whether or not further action is required. Feel free to check online or come to the next scheduled meeting to hear our conclusions." With that, the president banged his gavel and the lights went down for good as Mr. Anderson dashed for the stage door followed closely by Cooper.

"Dad! Stop!"

-TBC


	13. Be Enough

**AN:** So, I seem to have split the electorate on the last couple of chapters. I'm going to assume that you're all speechless and not bored to tears, because these are some of my favorite scenes. There's a lot happening in this chapter, especially since this was originally two chapters, and I combined them. I hope it's not too heavy and really look forward to knowing what you think.

 **AN:** I used Switchfoot's "Let That Be Enough," as a soundtrack in this one, meaning, no one is actually singing it, but I imagine it would be playing in the background. I obviously don't own any of the music.

-#-

Kurt had been barely managing to keep up some pretense of productivity -making the salad for dinner, finishing up an essay on storytelling techniques for his Bards and Balladeers class, and filing his sheet music into the newly decoupaged bins he'd bought for the purpose-all while maintaining no more than one and a half armlengths distance between himself and his phone. It wasn't pacing if the actual completion of tasks was involved.

Paradoxically, it felt both sad and funny at the same time that being 'on a break' from his relationship with Blaine meant he spent just that much more time waiting for his calls. He felt like he was back at Dalton all over again, waiting for Blaine to stop trying to be the mature, responsible one and see the shiny blackbird that was right in front of him, only now Kurt really wanted to be the mature, responsible one as well. That didn't mean there weren't days when he wished that 'taking a break' was like Richard Simmons' Deal a Meal diet so they could occasionally deal themselves a break from taking a break. It was hard to be young and in love when surviving it required a certain amount of wisdom.

And patience.

Lots of patience.

Or, lacking that, the ability to tirelessly wear tracks around the dining table while waiting for the phone to ring.

When it finally rang, he actually looked down to make sure he didn't trip over the groove he imagined he'd worn into the floor as he lunged to answer it.

Though he was disappointed to see his Dad's name on the display instead of Blaine's, but only slightly, since he knew they were both at the school board meeting that night and could tell him how it went.

"Dad?"

"Kurt, have you heard from Blaine?"

"N-no. I thought he was with you. Isn't he with you? DAD?!"

"Calm down, kiddo. Okay? The whole presentation went great. I know you'd be proud. I've gotten pretty good at reading a crowd, and I think Blaine and his friends really reached some people in that room tonight."

"Okay, well, that's great, but then why are you asking if I've heard from him? Is there something I need to hear from him? Did something else happen?"

"Kurt, Blaine's dad showed up."

"What? His dad?! He can't just show up like that. Why? Why would he do that?!"

"I don't know, son. He showed up with Cooper, so I'm guessing he or his mom got in touch about tonight. I don't even know that much about what's going on between him and Blaine, but Blaine ran off the stage, and no one's been able to get ahold of him since. Now, this is important. His car's still here, so we don't think he left the building. Is there anywhere you think he might be that we might not have checked yet? No go on the choir room, the locker room, the library, or any of the bathrooms."

Kurt shut his eyes, pressing a hand to his forehead as if he could physically push back the panic welling up behind his temples. "Um, yeah. Sometimes he talks to Miss Pillsbury, but if he's not with her, there's a-a props closet backstage of the auditorium. We used to sneak in there to... anyway, if he ran off stage, that's probably the closest safe space, but Dad, he really can't be alone. You have to find him."

"We're working on it, kiddo. We'll let you know as soon as we find him. For now, I want you to call him. Keep calling him. He hasn't picked up for anyone else, but he'll answer you, buddy. I know it."

Still rubbing at his forehead, Kurt took a shuddering breath. "R-right, right. I'll do that. Just find him. And Dad?"

"Yeah, son?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too, kid."

The line was barely dead before an outgoing call went out to Blaine's number and the familiar electronic ringback tone buzzed in Kurt's ear in direct competition with the sound of his own pounding heart and rasping breath. "Pick up, pick up, pick up," he pleaded. The momentary relief he felt when the call didn't go directly to voicemail evaporated when it did so, anyway, five rings later. He dropped the call without leaving a message and dialed again.

He was on his fourth dial through when Rachel slid open the door with her usual flourish, a waft of musty hallway air blowing through the loft like a dust devil in her wake. Though she was just moving about in her normal fashion, hanging up her coat and heading into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea, the tapping of her boots across the bare floor might as well have been a missing scene from "Stomp," as Kurt concentrated all his senses on willing Blaine to pick. up. the g-darn phone. He was two clomps away from whacking Rachel over the head with the nearest kitchen utensil, a salad tongs of all things, when Blaine finally answered.

"Kurt!"

"Blaine, oh my Gaga, where are you? Everyone's worried sick! I was five more missed calls away from booking a flight home."

"I know, I'm sorry. I just needed a minute to process, and I saw that creepy Jacob from the school paper following me, so I got a ride home with my mom."

With a relieved sigh, Kurt bowed his head to relieve the tension coiling at the top of his spine. "Look, I'm not mad or saying you did anything wrong, but you do realize my dad's probably breaking down the door to the props closet as we speak? I can see the headline now, 'Congressman Defaces School Property, Crushed to Death by Mast from _Pirates of Penzance_.' And, I'm pretty sure he knows what we used to do in there."

A thick laugh from the other side of the call made it hard to tell whether Blaine was laughing or crying.

"You could've answered the phone before now."

Kurt heard Blaine clear his throat and imagined him shaking his head and blinking his eyes the way he did when he needed to clear his mind and get to the point. "I-I know. It was just hard when everyone was calling at once, and I really needed a minute to think."

Kurt nodded, even though he knew Blaine couldn't see it, "I know. I mean, I heard about your dad."

"No! Not about that." Blaine's sudden retort made Kurt pull back for a second and look at his phone as though he wasn't quite sure who was on the other end. "I mean, okay, yeah, I need to think about that, but not yet. That's why I left. I couldn't let him steal my moment."

"I-I'm sorry," Kurt admitted. "I don't think I follow." He lowered his voice and turned around, cupping his hand around the microphone when he saw Rachel raising her eyebrows at him in search of an explanation. "Isn't he one of your... I mean, you weren't t-tr...?"

"Triggered? No. Well, maybe, but that's not what this is about."

Kurt shook his head, "Okay, but just tell me first. Are you okay? Can I tell everyone you're fine?"

"Oh! Yeah, I'm fine. I think my mom's on the phone with Cooper now, actually."

"Good, okay, just a second." Kurt covered the phone and turned to Rachel.

"What is going on?" She asked in a stage whisper.

Kurt shook his head, eyes shut dismissively and said, "Never mind. Just do me a favor and call my dad. Let him know Blaine is fine and he's home with his mom. I'm on the phone with him now."

Rachel's chin tightened, her lips flattening into a straight line that said she didn't appreciate having her questions deferred and would most definitely expect an explanation later, but she brandished her phone so he could clearly see she was willing to grant the favor. He mouthed a quick 'thank you' and took his phone call back to his own bed, aware she'd still be able to hear but knowing the call would likely drop if he sought sanctuary in the bathroom where the solid brick effectively blocked most cell reception.

"Kurt?"

"Yeah, I'm back." He sat cross-legged on the bed and fidgeted with the bit of bedspread that wrinkled up between his crossed ankles. "So, it's not about your dad showing up out of the blue, then it must be about the forum? How did it go?"

"Kurt, it was..." that same laugh that Kurt couldn't quite decipher as Blaine broke off and restarted. "We were doing it. _I_ was doing it. They were trying to provoke me. I could tell. They didn't care about insurance or the school. They just wanted to see the freak lose his mind on stage. But I was keeping it together."

"Blaine, that's amazing. I knew you could do it."

"No, you didn't. I know you didn't, because I didn't."

"Alright, maybe, I didn't know, but I hoped, and I believed in you."

"It wasn't just me, though," Blaine stammered, his words tumbling out, excitement clear in the rush to explain. "It was Sam and Tina and Artie and... It was everyone. They practically kidnapped me from your dad's shop and said they wanted to help, and then they refused to let me go out there by myself. I don't know if it was being able to sing about it or if it was just knowing they all had my back, but I did it. I-I kept it together. I didn't let the ignorance push my buttons, and I think I might even have gotten through to a few of them."

"That's great. I'm so proud of you."

"Kuuurt..."

"No, I mean it. You stood up for yourself. You didn't let them chase you away. And it sounds like you've built yourself one heck of a support system there. Plus," he struggled to pin it down, but there was something else happening on the end of the line that he couldn't quite put his finger on, "you sound... I don't know..."

"Happy." Blaine supplied. "I felt happy. As soon as it was over, I was just sitting there at the piano, and I noticed I felt different. Like, my hands weren't shaking, and I didn't feel like everyone was just sitting there judging me. It was like, I did what I went there to do, and I did it, and no matter how they took it, I did my best, you know?"

Kurt bit his knuckle. Blaine was right. He sounded happy, and now that he heard it, it sounded foreign. How long had it actually been since Blaine was happy? Really happy, not just playing along, but really and truly, genuinely happy? He brushed the corners of his eyes with his freshly bitten knuckle, because Blaine had been sliding under for so long, and he never noticed. Without thinking, he said the first thing on his mind. "I'm sorry."

"What?" Blaine sounded genuinely taken aback. "Kurt, what do you have to be sorry for? I just said that I'm fine. Happy, even."

"I'm sorry I couldn't make you happy. I just realized I how long it must've been since... and I didn't notice until you came to me."

"Hey, nooo. Don't go there, okay?" Kurt recognized the tone of his voice from back in their Dalton Academy days. "First, I have a diagnosed medical condition. You gave me every reason to be happy. My brain just couldn't make the right connections. It's not your fault. Second, the whole point of us taking this break was for me to learn how to find my own way and not base my happiness on other people, particularly you, because we need to contribute equally or it will never work. This is the first time that I've felt like I've been able to do that, which means we are one step closer to being able to being able to work as a couple again. That's good news. And third, if you really feel like you are responsible for making me happy, then we definitely need to sit down with my therapist together, because that's not healthy for either of us."

Kurt sniffed and composed himself, straightening his legs in front of himself as he leaned back against his headboard. "You're probably right. I didn't mean to make it about me. I just realized how long it's been since I really heard you happy, and I missed it so much."

"Me, too."

They sat several long beats in comfortable silence, before Kurt addressed the elephant in the room. "So, if you're happy, which you are, and I'm happy you're happy, which I am, then why are you hiding from your dad?"

"I'm not hiding. I'm just exercising my option to take a step back and address the situation on my own terms." Kurt could hear the grin on his face over the phone as well as the sound of added voices to the general din of background noise. "Anyway, he and Cooper just got home. I'll let you know how it goes when and if I decide to talk to him. Right now, I'm going to bed. He made me wait almost two years. He can wait until tomorrow. Good night, Kurt."

"Night, Blaine. I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you. I'm proud of me, too."

Then it was Kurt's turn to be happy. "Good. You should be."

-#-

Blaine made his way down the winding staircase to the lower level still in his stocking feet but otherwise dressed and ready for the day, despite the early hour. His morning ritual had become substantially longer since giving up coffee, which was still the toughest pill to swallow of the handful he choked down every morning. Plus, taking his medications earlier in the morning made the evening dose land closer to dinner time. He dropped his shoes by the front door along with his messenger bag and headed for the kitchen, grateful for the tile that never squeaked and allowed him to move around silently in the morning without disturbing anyone.

"Good morning, Blaine."

Or, at least that had been his ritual since school started. The booming voice from across the counter obviously wouldn't know that, though, and brought the events of the night before back to the forefront in all of four syllables.

"Dad," he acknowledged, mentally patting himself on the back for not jumping out of his skin. "I'm surprised you're up. Isn't it like one a.m. Syrian time?" He made his way around the island and opened the little cupboard door closest to the refrigerator that was too narrow to store anything useful but had become a convenient space for organizing the various orange pill bottles that always made an appearance around meal time. He swallowed hard at finding it empty and turned around to face his father, arms crossed and leaning against the counter.

"I never went to bed. Didn't want to miss you. Your mom says you're quite the early riser these days."

"You missed the last two years, Dad. Would one more day really make a difference?"

"It would if I made plans for the day."

Blaine resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Leave it to his dad to forget that the world did not revolve around Thomas Anderson's schedule, and other people had commitments that didn't involve him. Reaching for a cereal bowl, which clattered a little too loudly on the counter, Blaine bent down to open the door to the lazy susan in the lower cupboard, purposely spinning it four complete revolutions before choosing a container of cereal that was either Lucky Charms or one of the organic knock-offs his mom was into these days. It was hard to tell since all the cereal boxes were emptied into plastic Tupperware containers with no labels on them. "I have school," he bit out, "and from the sounds of it, you've got some sleep to catch up on."

"I called school and told them you wouldn't be in." Thomas used both hands to push the group of pill bottles across the counter along with a steaming cup of what looked like coffee. "And it looks like I've got a lot more to catch up on than sleep." He met Blaine's gaze squarely and handed him the coffee. "It's decaf."

"I hate decaf." Instead of taking the cup, Blaine opened the refrigerator door hard enough for that annoying bottle of mustard to fall on the floor, forcing him to put it back before taking out the milk and sloshing some into the cereal and more defiantly into a glass. As much as he wanted to avoid taking another step closer to his father, he was in the habit of taking his meds before his first bite in the morning, and he wasn't about to change his ritual any more than necessary to accommodate the man. It was frustrating enough the bottles were all mixed together instead of on their respective shelves, and he had to re-sort them hastily, reading each label before either opening them and taking out his morning dose or putting them to the side.

His dad watched him, eyes following each bottle, his hands clasped in front of him on the counter next to the abandoned cup of coffee. "You're pretty efficient at that," he noted.

Blaine paused, the entire handful of pills poised inches from his mouth, glass of milk at the ready. "Well, I gotta stay on top of things. Half the town expects me to go off my meds and shoot up the school or something."

Half the meds were already swallowed, the second half sloshing in his mouth along with a swig of milk when his dad said, "I don't know. I think you changed a lot of minds out there last night. You were pretty amazing."

The first swallow almost came back up to join the second, and they both almost staged an exeunt through his nasal cavity, but he managed to choke the whole mess down, losing only a small dribble of milk down his chin, which he caught with a dish towel before it could make it to the front of his shirt. Blaine took a few seconds to compose himself, bent over the sink, sure the compliment was some sort of a fluke to be followed up immediately by some barb about how Blaine was obviously still a little hyper and oversensitive.

Instead, he turned around to find his dad reading one of the prescription bottles. "Mood stabilizer," he said with a nod. "Was it hard finding one that didn't react with your beta blocker?"

Wiping his mouth one last time, Blaine dropped the towel beside the sink and then didn't know what to do with his arms, torn between crossing them across his chest and bracing them on the counter behind him. He finally decided on leaning on one elbow over his cereal bowl and splashing around in it, no longer hungry for marshmallow treats. "Yeah. I lost count of how many they tried before we settled on those," he admitted, a shiver creeping up his spine at the memory of those weeks in the hospital. "The first one practically put me in a coma. Another one made me shake so hard they had to knock me out. Even that wasn't as bad as the..."

"Antidepressants?" His dad ventured, holding up a second bottle.

"Yeah," Blaine felt something loosening in his chest. His mom always got a sort of deer in the headlights look on her face whenever the side effects of his meds came up. He suspected she had her assistant call in the prescriptions when he needed refills. "The panic attacks were..." he sucked in a breath, his body remembering too well how it felt when he couldn't catch one, "...intense. So, they gave me..."

A third bottle, "...for anxiety." His dad put that one down, his eyes not raising higher than the knuckles of the hand he held it in, then pushed the entire impressive collection together. "Are they helping?" He still didn't look up, either afraid of the answer or of the question, Blaine couldn't tell. Probably both.

Blaine shrugged. "I haven't shut myself in the garage with the car running for a while."

"Blaine that's not something you joke…"

"What do you want me to say, Dad? That I'm all right? How would I even know what that is?" When his father didn't immediately answer, he took a second to will his anger down to a simmer. It was too early, he was too tired, and this was one of those patterns he wanted desperately to break. He dropped his head. "I don't know if they help me feel better, but they give me more time to think and work through things, take a little of the edge off. So, I guess they're working okay."

"Good." The heaviness to the silence that followed suggested there was more to be said but the words were temporarily elusive. Blaine had no illusions about the conversation being over, but for now, his father's fingers trailed away from the bottles he'd already examined to the one with the name of his cardiologist on the label. "Cooper mentioned you've been reluctant about the possibility of getting an ICD."

Blaine's throat tightened. "Can you blame me?"

"No. Definitely not." Blaine was surprised by the response. Everyone else seemed convinced the ICD was the be all and end all of treatment for his heart condition, ignoring the fact that just the idea of having a defibrillator in his chest made his mood disorder that much harder to navigate. "It would scare the hell out of me," Thomas admitted.

"Really?" Whatever resentment he held for his father, it didn't really change the fact that he'd grown up seeing the man as some kind of all-powerful superhero figure, fearless, and being old enough to know better didn't really help Blaine to dispel the myth.

"Of course. And not just me. There's plenty in the literature to link ICD implantation to increased anxiety, depression, and even PTSD. You don't need that... on top of everything else you're dealing with."

A lump rose in Blaine's throat. He didn't know what exactly he'd expected from his dad once they sat down to talk, if they ever got the chance, but he never expected validation. Until now, everyone had made him feel like he was being ridiculous. They all said the procedure was simple and the recovery practically painless. He'd hardly know it was even there once it was in, they said. But he'd know. How could he not know? Of all the people to get that... his dad.

Funny how his dad was the only one who could recognize what he didn't need, and yet he somehow managed to completely miss the boat on what he needed more than anything.

"I do think it's your best option. When you're ready, though. Not before."

Blaine's chest heaved around a sob. He hadn't realized how much he needed to hear that, how just the act of one person agreeing with him could exponentially ease the pressure he felt to please everyone else in spite of himself. How afraid he was of falling into the trap of trying to please that one. Already the warmth and familiarity of that pit made him want to ignore the way the tar snared him and burned away at his resolve with a hiss.

He dropped the spoon into his cereal bowl and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, determined not to break down and ruin the modicum of respect he thought he was finally earning. The next breath came in choked and heavy, the battle clearly lost, whether he was ready to admit it or not. Something harder pumped into his veins, the back of his jaw steeled around the lump in his throat, refusing to let it out even if his eyelashes felt clumped and heavy with emotion. He took a deeper breath than he'd pulled in ages, tapping into the empty cavern in his chest where he smothered anything he wouldn't allow himself to show, and they ignited, a fiery backdraft, hot as dragon's breath.

"When I'm ready?!" It ground out, flint against a rock, and Blaine didn't recognize his own voice. "Like I was ready for you to fly off to the other side of the world?! Dad, what part of me spending half my day in physical therapy and the other half trying to catch up on my schoolwork so I wouldn't get left back a year suggested that I was ready for you to go? What happened to you waiting until after I graduated high school like you always said you would? You were there for Cooper! Why couldn't you...?"

He broke off, aware that he was starting to sound pathetic and needy, the exact things he was sure had suffocated his dad into leaving in the first place. As much as he thought he was finally okay not having his dad around, Blaine's traitor soul was already pulling at the tenuous whipstitches around the gaping hole he thought he'd patched, the thread vibrating like piano wire at the prospect of chasing him away again. Which was stupid. He was never going to stay, anyway. Not for Blaine. Never for Blaine.

Especially if Blaine couldn't ask him to.

He dug his thumb and pointer finger into tightly closed eyelids as had become his habit when he needed to retreat into himself long enough to dredge up some of the clarity he needed to break those old habits. It wasn't pathetic. _He_ wasn't pathetic. "Dad... I needed you. I needed you and you weren't here."

"I'm here now."

 _(I feel stuck watching history repeating)_

"Are you?" He made his glare ask everything else that he was afraid to voice. _Why?_ There must be some ulterior motive. _What took you so long?_ Blaine was finally starting to be okay on his own. He was finally getting it right. _When are you leaving?_ It had to be soon, right? He couldn't get too comfortable, attached-happy.

 _(Yeah, who am I? Just a kid who knows he's needy)_

Blaine looked away a little too quickly, suddenly exposed under the gaze of his own amber eyes piercing through him from across the cold expanse of granite.

 _(Let me know that you hear me)_

"For now," blunt but quietly apologetic. "I shouldn't have left then, and I should've been here sooner. I can't change any of that, now, but I'm here, at least until after the new year. For you, Blaine. Just you." He paused in lieu of a 'but.' He was, after all, the man that taught him adding a 'but' onto any statement basically negated everything that came before it. Blaine heard it anyway. "I have to go back for a few months to finish up what I started, and then I'm done. Okay?"

Blaine wasn't sure how to answer. Didn't know if it _was_ okay, if it ever could be.

His dad reached across the space between them, his hand falling on Blaine's shoulder where it met his neck, thumb straddling the divide of front and back to stroke over his collar bone-a familiar touch, long forgotten.

 _(Let me know your touch)_

"Blaine, I'm going to do everything I can to be back by the time you graduate. I don't know what else I can do."

 _(Let me know that you love me.)_

Blaine noticed he never addressed the 'whys,' neither the spoken or unspoken, but he'd spent enough time in therapy by then to know there probably was no easy way to answer, knew it would take some time to uncover, even longer to understand. He didn't need that now.

"Okay?"

 _(And let that be enough)_

When his father's hand tightened on his shoulder, Blaine let himself go with the drag of it, hand curling into wrist into forearm into two arms wrapped around all of him tightly enough that whatever knot kept him doubled up inside loosened and started to unwind.

It hurt so much.

"Okay," he sniffed.

And just enough.

-#-

"Wait, so, your dad came straight from the airport, stayed up all night, and then spent the whole day with you? What is he, Superman?" Kurt's tone was light, as though they were discussing the plot, or lack thereof, in some reality T.V. series instead of the actual reality of Blaine's life. It was appreciated. Talking about himself was hard for Blaine on most days, and talking about himself and his dad had the potential to go wrong in so many ways he rarely let the conversation go there. Now that there was no way around it, he appreciated Kurt's sensitivity but was glad they'd chosen a phone call over Skype. Even in slight distortion, Skype!Kurt always looked muted, about twenty shades darker than the brightness he kept in his voice.

"He says he slept on the plane, but he didn't argue when I said I was tired and made him take me home after lunch. He went straight upstairs when we got back, but I'm pretty sure I heard him talking on the phone. I just hope he's not planning to take me out of school again. I'm going to be so far behind."

"Oh, c'mon. We both know you've been working ahead of the syllabus in most of your classes, anyway. You can handle a day off or three." The line went silent for at least couple of breaths, and in his mind's eye, Blaine could see Kurt biting the inside of his lip and ducking his chin the way he always did when he was about to say something he felt but wasn't sure would be appreciated. "You work too hard."

"Maybe," which they both knew was shorthand speak for 'I hear you, but I don't want to talk about that right now.' "But I'm not sure Sue would appreciate me missing my first day as co-Captain of the Cheerios." He laced enough sarcasm into his words that he was sure Kurt could hear his eyes rolling as he flopped back on his bed, feet dangling and free hand flung above his head.

"I was a Cheerio. You'll be fine. I'm sure not even Sue Sylvester is immune to your charms. What I don't get is, how did Sue get your dad to help her recruit you?"

-#-

Despite the necessary but somewhat hasty and tenuous reconciliation with his father (which was actually not uncharacteristic of the whole of their relationship, in retrospect), Blaine had considered sneaking out and going to school while his dad was in the shower. One emotional breakdown was more than enough for the day, especially on the heels of the one most prior to it. He wasn't sure spending the entire day with one of his known triggers was in his best interest, therapeutic or not.

As it turned out, he didn't have a terrible time. His dad hadn't been kidding when he said he'd made plans for the day. All their time together in the car was spent listening to his dad chronicle his work building a hospital in Syria, which Blaine actually was interested in hearing about (and only a little resentful) but didn't need to invest himself in too deeply. It turned out to be a little like changing the oil on other people's cars -just what they needed to pass the time without a whole lot of emotional trauma. (Excepting the part where his dad wanted to drive the Chevy only to find his mother had upgraded them all to Priuses after Blaine's 'accident.')

It got a little weird after that.

Blaine had his doubts about whether or not his father had come back from the war with all of his faculties intact when it turned out their first 'plan' for the day was a meeting with a "fascinating woman" his dad had met at the school board meeting. Pulling into the parking lot, Blaine assumed they were going to meet Principal Figgins and talk about the curriculum. His dad hadn't said anything, but Blaine knew he couldn't be thrilled that he left his son at Dalton Academy and returned to find him enrolled at McKinley. They hadn't really talked about Kurt yet, either, which was fine, because his therapist had been trying to convince him for a while that Kurt was, in some ways, Blaine's emotional replacement for his father, and he really didn't want to think about that with his father standing right there for easy comparison.

Blaine couldn't help but duck his gaze as they walked past the dented lockers and less than tasteful student posters lining the hallway; the cheap linoleum tile was desperately in need of wax and paled starkly in contrast to Dalton's polished marble under sweeping skylights and chandeliers. In the back of his mind, he still harbored the fear of letting is dad down somehow, forgetting that he'd actually attended public school for most of his life with his father's blessing.

They did stop in to see Principal Figgins, where they got a copy of the map which denoted the location of every external defibrillator on the campus, which they then checked out personally to see if they were properly charged and had the relevant instructions with them. Then, they stopped in to see Miss Pillsbury to find out what sort of mental health support system they had in place at McKinley. It turned out that was basically... Miss Pillsbury. Blaine figured they were leaving, after that, and not a moment too soon, because the lunch bell was going to ring in a minute, and he really didn't want to see anyone he knew while he was there with his dad, not after the way he ran out on everyone the night before. His dad had other plans, however.

"Now, how do I get to Ms. Sylvester's office?" he asked.

"Wait, Coach Sylvester? The fascinating woman you came here to meet wasn't Miss Pillsbury?"

"The guidance counselor? Lord, no. I found her mildly disturbing, to be honest, in an endearing way, of course. I could tell she really thinks highly of you, son. I'm glad you have her." His dad spoke without losing stride in his brisk pace down the hallway, his hands clasped behind his back in that way that always made Blaine feel like he was discussing a business proposal.

"Why do you want to see Coach Sylvester, of all people?"

"Well, when I met her last night, right after you made your grand exit, she suggested she might be able to help out with the school board."

"No! Um, Dad, I know you haven't been around, but trust me on this when I say you do not want Sue Sylvester's help with anything."

"Well, _I_ don't need her help," his dad countered. " _You_ do. And I'm going to see that you get it."

Blaine squinted his eyes. "Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if Sue was the cause of my school board problems in the first place. We still don't know who tipped them off."

"Let's try to keep an open mind, all right? She seemed fairly eloquent when we spoke and..."

"She had Cooper autograph her b-boo…her breast!"

His dad nodded with his chin, unperturbed. "Your brother's very popular with the ladies, Blaine. Surely you can appreciate that?"

Blaine shuddered. "No, I really can't."

They rounded the corner and were nearly run down by the subject of their discussion herself.

"There you are!" Sue exclaimed. "I was just about to send Becky out to look for you." Before he could duck away, Sue draped an arm over Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine Devon Anderson. Just the pint-sized future leading man I've been needing to see. This way, gentleman." And she ushered them into her office.

Blaine couldn't be sure, but he thought there were even more trophies on display than there had been the last time he walked by, and squinting from behind the desk, he wasn't convinced they were all even from this school, but it was hard to tell with the tubs of protein powder conveniently blocking half the name plaques. Sue leaned back in her desk chair with one leg crossed over the other, her hands clasped above that.

"Mr. Anderson," she said.

"Doctor, actually," Blaine corrected.

Sue nodded curtly, her eyes narrowing slightly, "Dr. Anderson, then, having sat beside you at last night's school board meeting, I know that you and I share similar sentiments on the travesty of that whole fiasco. The nerve of those people putting a young, emotionally vulnerable student on display like that..."

"Actually," Blaine interrupted, "I did that of my own free will. Mr. Hummel was prepared to address them on my behalf, but I wanted to do it myself-as much as possible, anyway."

"And I respect your chutzpah..."

"We're not Jewish," Blaine corrected again.

"Blaine. Enough." It turned out he wasn't too old to be scolded.

"I'm sorry, Dad, but I really don't understand why we're here. Sue is the cheerleading coach. That's not even an administrative position. She gave away the glee club's set list to their competition one year, and threw another team's director down a flight of stairs in order to sabotage Regionals. She tried to shoot a student out of a cannon..."

"And gave another student the opportunity to sing an eleven minute solo and win a national championship when his own director only let him sing in the background," Sue countered. She leaned forward, straightening in her seat, both feet on the floor as she met Blaine's gaze. "Look, it's no secret that I have a healthy dislike of the glee club and the arts in general, but what I cannot and will not tolerate is the conducting of an ill-conceived and misguided witch hunt on my campus." She relaxed back in her chair enough to flip open her laptop. "Admittedly, I showed up last night with the sole purpose of trying to catch Congressman Hummel putting his foot in it. What I got instead was this."

She turned the computer around to face them, a video queued up and ready to play. When she tapped the mousepad, the audio of last night's musical performance blared from the speakers accompanying a high definition image of Blaine at the piano with his friends seated around him. The whole thing was cut together with the moment Blaine came to Becky's rescue and saved her from embarrassing herself, ending with a shot of Becky's smile as she turned and did her best pageant queen wave for everyone. Leave it to Sue to turn a school board forum into a promotion for the Cheerios. Blaine didn't understand what he was supposed to be seeing. He was there, after all. He knew how it went. He squinted, half expecting some CGI enhancement. Instead, it was the title that caught his eye.

"Hey, why does it say, 'Cheerleading Captain Takes School Board to Class'?" Blaine asked. "I mean, Becky was there, but she didn't exactly..."

Sue winked, pulling a pair of eyeglasses out of her pocket and putting them on before stooping behind the desk and returning with a large, flat box. She pushed the box across the desk, grinning as she lifted the top off to reveal a Cheerios uniform, a male's Cheerios uniform. "I need a music director for my team who can infuse a little emotion into our routines without over-stimulating the whole lot of PMSing, teenage angsting, drama queens in the process. And you need my uniform, which is the closest thing McKinley High has to a get out of jail free card. I guarantee, you put this on, and all your problems with the school board will go away. I'll even make you co-Captain, which always looks good on a college application and in the valedictorian selection process."

"My problems with the school board will go away, because they have no merit to begin with," Blaine countered, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What exactly would he have to do?" his dad asked.

"Dad, I don't want to be a Cheerio."

His dad turned to Blaine and fixed him with a thoughtful gaze before he spoke. "Blaine, you said you didn't have to go out there last night, that you wanted to do it yourself. Why?"

Blaine uncrossed his arms and shrugged, "Because I wanted them to see I could. I wanted to prove I could."

"And don't you think more people would see you in this?" his father reasoned, pointing to the uniform. "Couldn't you better lead by example if you were in a position of leadership?"

"I'm President of the Student Council."

"And who goes to those meetings?" his dad prompted.

Blaine shrugged without uncrossing his arms. "Um, the Student Council."

"And how often do they meet?"

"Once a week, unless there's a scheduling conflict… sometimes every other week."

"And the Cheerios…?"

"Are Legion," Sue supplied after watching the back and forth with the earpiece of her eyeglasses in the corner of her mouth and lips pursed in thought. "Blaine, I'm going to be honest," and Blaine's attention automatically heightened, since she rarely if ever addressed him by his proper name, "I don't really get you. Part of me still sees you as the conjoined twin that was supposed to die in the separation process but somehow managed to pull through, and now has no identity other than Twin B. That is a profound failure on my part, one which I swore I would never repeat after dropping the ball on David Karofsky. I'll admit, I don't know who you are without Kurt." She set the glasses down, squared her gaze up with his. "But after last night, I know what you stand for. I'm not entirely sure where I stand on the issues regarding mental illness and mood altering medications in this school or the general population for that matter, but I saw what you did for Becky. I'd like to think my own daughter, Robin, will have people around her that can make her feel like Miss America, too. If not you, then possibly someone you inspired. I want to give you the chance to be that inspiration. What's more, I believe you will. Let me help you."

"I can't... cheer," Blaine reasoned, the words more of a sigh, because he wasn't convinced they weren't onto something. His eyes had dropped to the desk at some point during Sue's monologue, never comfortable when the conversation was about him.

"Which is why you'd be in charge of music. Just song selection, blocking out choreography, minor hand-holding, and looking out for Becky. Absolutely nothing strenuous. It's more a Public Relations position than anything. Good for you. Good for us."

When it came down to it, the uniform sitting innocuously in the box atop the desk was no more than any other costume Blaine had ever worn. He darted his eyes toward his dad, who'd leaned sideways in his chair, eyebrows raised to indicate the ball was entirely in Blaine's court. "Okay," he finally said with a nod that was more of a heavy blink than anything, and held out his hand.

Sue shook it, then his father's and handed him the box. "Welcome to the team."

-#-

"And the day just got better from there," Blaine chuckled, rolling onto his side so he could hear Kurt in his right ear while gazing at the framed photographs of the two of them together arranged on his nightstand. In the reflection off the frame glass, he couldn't help but notice the stupid, dopey grin on his face, and if he closed his eyes and curled in on himself, it wasn't hard to imagine Kurt was actually there, holding him the way he used to, when they weren't on a break.

"Better than Sue Sylvester throwing you a thong in front of your prodigal father? Do tell."

"Well," Blaine drawled, "After he pimped me out to the Cheerios, my dad dragged me to see my cardiologist."

"Dr. Schwartzmann?"

"Mmm-hmm, only after today, I'm not so sure he's still my cardiologist."

"Really, why?"

-#-

Apparently the only way to score an appointment with Blaine's cardiologist on less than one day's notice was to agree to meet him over his lunch hour. Blaine's stomach had been growling since they sat down across from Dr. Schwartzmann at his desk where he had a sandwich, salad, and some kind of iced coffee drink spread out in front of him. Of course, _they_ hadn't eaten yet. That wasn't scheduled until after the doctor's appointment. Blaine couldn't help but wonder if there was a bathroom break on that itinerary, too. The longer the day went on, the less he felt like he and his dad were reconnecting or mending bridges and the more he felt like he was his dad's new pet project, like everything they did or said was just one more checkmark on Thomas' 'How to Fix My Son,' checklist. His stomach wasn't the only thing growling at that point, but Blaine was learning to choose his battles wisely, and it wasn't the time or the place for this one.

Besides, his dad was a doctor. It would be nice to sit through one of these appointments and not constantly get the feeling that he was being talked down to. It wasn't like his mom was incapable of understanding doctor speak; she was no idiot, but Blaine had learned the art of deflection from her. When things got too intense, she had a knack for getting someone to change horses midstream. Whenever it sounded to him like his prognosis was questionable at best, his mother managed to get a best case scenario redux of the whole conversation so they could leave the office cautiously optimistic. Because Blaine's life path always adhered to the best case scenario, right? More than once he'd thought to ask her to leave so he could talk to the doctor one on one but changed his mind. He wasn't sure he really wanted the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. He got enough of that in therapy.

"Doctor Anderson," Schwartzmann surmised, standing briefly from behind the desk with his hand extended.

"Thomas, please," Blaine's dad suggested, taking the hand cordially before sitting down.

"Excuse me for eating in front of you," the cardiologist apologized, pushing a stack of folders across the desk where his father could reach them. "These are the files you requested, ECG, cardiac MRI, stress test..."

"You have the ones from Columbus Springs, too?"

"Of course," the doc said around the straw of his drink. "They've actually got quite a competent staff. They had Mobile Cardiac Telemetry data recorded the entire time he was in their care, including the one major episode."

Blaine squinted and tucked his chin, head cocked slightly to the side. "Episode?" he asked. "As in, a cardiac episode?" He cleared away a constriction that suddenly grabbed him by the throat with a shake of his head. "I wasn't aware there was one. I mean, I know I had some rough days, but those weren't heart related..." he looked quickly between the other two men in the room, "were they?"

Dr. Schwartzmann stopped chewing and reached for his drink, presumably to clear his mouth before speaking, his eyes darting to Thomas the way they usually did to Blaine's mother. Without looking up from the papers, his dad answered for him. "The day they had to sedate you, it was because you had an arrhythmia that wasn't responding to pharmacological intervention, and they needed to do a cardioversion."

"They had to shock me?" Blaine was sure it sounded more like a whimper than he intended.

"Hmm, yes," his father said with a thoughtful nod, his face pinching at the edges while he studied the charts and reports in front of him. "And I'm sure there's a good reason this wasn't officially classified as an incidence of electrical storm, Doctor?"

Schwartzmann cleared his throat, presumably to dislodge the remnants of his sandwich and not because he had any dubious actions to speak for. "The circumstances of this particular episode fall into somewhat of a gray area, and without a dedicated cardiologist on staff there..."

"The technician from Wexner who was monitoring the MCT was the one who advised them through the entire procedure. They didn't make a single move without involving the specialists at Wexner. So, imagine my surprise when I called Wexner to find out if I could see their MCT log of the incident and was told by a Dr. Luxeter that my son had a serious incident of electrical storm. Furthermore, he felt that, upon comparing the tracings from that day with the records they had from Blaine's initial diagnosis, there was more than enough cause for concern about the rate at which his ARVC is progressing." All of this was said without meeting Dr. Schwartzmann's eyes, which allowed the man time to put his sandwich down and fold his hands in the more familiar, if somewhat patronizing, manner Blaine was more accustomed to.

"And, after reviewing the same charts..." Schwartzmann began.

"Which you had to do, because you were not involved _at all_ until the next day," Thomas interjected, this time notably locking eyes across the file he now had propped open on the one knee he'd folded across his lap.

After a very succinct clearing of his throat, Dr. Schwartzmann appeared to dismiss the interruption, "I believe the episode resulted from the combined influences of drug interaction and emotional stress, both of which are completely understandable in that environment."

"And that's exactly what Dr. Luxeter concluded," with an agreeable but not dismissive nod, "except he didn't believe that precluded the possibility that this condition is de-stabilized beyond what my wife has led me to believe. She, for example, never once mentioned that the diagnosis and treatment for his Bipolar Disorder may have overshadowed the fact that his ARVC has possibly progressed."

"Other than coordinating medications, I can't speak with regard to Blaine's mental illness or how much of a prevalence it has exerted over his day to day life."

"Mmm-hmm, all the more reason for his cardiologist to keep him apprised of any cause for concern, including that he's in a hot phase and needs to take extra precautions to avoid another serious event. For example, why isn't he on a specific antiarrhythmic agent instead of the Atenolol. Amiodarone is pretty much standard after a severe event like this one."

"It also did not control the arrhythmia when administered at Columbus Springs. His arrhythmia required external defibrillation. I've re-iterated the recommendation for the ICD implantation on more than one occasion."

"But did you explain to him that he could literally die without it or recommend further diagnostic testing to support that conclusion? Once the patient has progressed into a hot phase, the ICD becomes less of an option and more of a necessity, and.."

"Wait." Blaine pushed his chair back with a scrape on the linoleum and slid to the front of it so he could lean forward and twist, facing each of the other two in turn. "I don't want any more tests. And... and more than that, I don't want people talking about me while I'm sitting right here!" He sucked in a deep breath and took his time facing his father, his eyes the last part of his body to make the connection. "Dad, I thought you understood why I don't want the ICD." He tried to keep the hint of betrayal out of his voice. He should've known his dad would never just take his side.

"I do," Thomas assured. He leaned forward in his own chair to place a hand on Blaine's knee. "I do understand why you wouldn't want it, and I think it's completely valid to feel that way. I also don't want to increase your emotional burden unnecessarily, but I feel like you don't have all the information you need to fully understand the gravity of the current situation. Primarily," and he turned to face Schwartzmann, "because they're treating your condition based on a generic protocol…"

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that," Schwartzmann interrupted. "Blaine has been getting the very best care…"

"As determined by the Board of Directors at this hospital."

"Well, yes, but…"

"Doctor, there's a reason why I practiced for years in a for profit hospital like this one and then voluntarily took my services overseas. I know how the system works. You treat every diagnosis as a typical case, even if there are procedures available that would allow you to differentiate one case from the next, because the hospital doesn't believe the costs of those procedures are justified…"

"Because most cases _are_ typical. Hence the term." Schwartzmann was no longer pretending that the situation hadn't escalated from a collaboration into a confrontation."

"To whom, exactly?" Blaine hadn't seen his father's jaw set that tightly since the conversation he'd had with the police from Blaine's hospital room before he'd transferred to Dalton.

"Dad…" Blaine reached out, placing a hand over his father's forearm. If this situation came to blows, Blaine really didn't want to have to give a statement of his own incriminating his father."

"Blaine," Thomas reassured, "I am simply pointing out that, while hospital policy is to treat every case as typical, my son is anything but, and I will not have you slipping through the cracks while he and his hospital bureaucrats ignore pertinent facts that make your situation unique."

"Unique because I had an episode while I was in the hospital?" Blaine questioned. "But isn't that why I was in the hospital to begin with? Because that was a possible complication?" He knew, somehow, that he was channeling his mother in this situation. While he wished he didn't have a condition at all, he was more than happy accepting the party line about the prognosis… considering the alternatives.

"Yes." His father slid his hand from Blaine's knee to his own, rubbing both palms on his thighs before unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling them back a few inches. "And that was the right decision. They saved your life. Blaine, if they hadn't intervened immediately, the kind of episode you had could not only have damaged your heart but any number of other major organ systems as well. If that had happened anywhere but there, where you were being constantly monitored, you would have died. And I don't think enough has been done to determine the root cause of that incident. To put it bluntly, I'm not sure it couldn't happen again."

The way his diaphragm ballooned up into his chest cavity, Blaine felt as though it was happening then. "But I'm stable. There hasn't been a change to my medication since I left the hospital."

"Your mental condition is stable," Thomas agreed. "I just don't think we know that for sure about your heart condition."

"So, you think I need to get the ICD?"

"I think we need to determine if that was an isolated incident and, if not, then yes, I think the ICD might be the first course of action in preventing it."

Dr. Schwartzmann pushed his lunch aside, the scrape of plastic along the desktop effectively adding himself back into the conversation as the both turned to look at him. "It is about time for your six month checkup, anyway," he offered. Then, turning to Thomas added, "If it would make you feel better, we could send him to Wexner again and run a second battery of tests."

Blaine eyed his dad who nodded. "Specifically looking for any new or exacerbated right ventricular dilatation and p wave progression analysis with regard to potential right bundle branch blockage."

Schwartzmann nodded slowly, his chin doubled over itself as he pursed his lips. "Since you seem to know what you're looking for, perhaps you'd like to assist in the testing." Blaine was sure there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice that suggested he didn't think it was an actual option.

"Dr. Luxeter has already agreed that I may. We just need you to set up the appointment, since you're the primary physician in this case." Blaine could almost see him checking one more thing off the internal checklist, no smugness or satisfaction in his expression, just a passive resolve as he moved on mentally to the next thing on the list. Placing a hand on Blaine's shoulder, he stood. "Please call us when it's set up, and," with a nod toward the desk, "enjoy the rest of your lunch."

Blaine left feeling like he'd just witnessed an epic game of chess and couldn't decide if he'd been won or lost. Mostly he was just surprised anyone would consider him a prize.

-#-

"Well, let's just say my dad's not a big fan of our Health Care system, and he might have implied that Dr. Schwartzmann was a slave to the man." Blaine didn't think a blow by blow of the actual conversation was necessary. He wasn't sure yet whether he understood the implications of it all, let alone how he felt about. He was sure he didn't want Kurt spending his evenings filling his browser history with horror stories from PubMed and WebMD.

"Huh," Kurt mused, "I'm not sure what I think about the fact that my dad's cardiologist did not get the thumbs up from your dad, but I'm really glad he's there for you, Blaine. It sounds like he's willing to advocate for you, and I know how you are."

Blaine huffed, a crooked smirk twisting his face and causing the phone to shift against his ear. "Oh you do, do you? And just how am I, Mr. Hummel?"

"You, Mr. Anderson, are selfless to a fault and would probably go to the gallows protesting the death of the tree they cut down to build it rather than professing your own innocence. You need someone else to look out for you, because you won't look out for yourself."

"I'm sorry, but why am I going to the gallows?"

"It's a metaphor, Blaine."

"Then how do you know I'd have innocence to profess? Maybe I deserve to go to the gallows and the tree really is the only innocent…"

"What are you even…? Blaine!"

Blaine chuckled, imagining Kurt rolling his eyes. "Never mind. I'm just messing with you. But for what it's worth, I'm glad my dad's here, too. Things aren't completely smoothed out between us, but I do think he's looking out for my best interest." He shrugged. "Better late than never, I guess."

"Mmm." Kurt sounded content. He was probably as tired as Blaine after the excitement of the last several days, but Blaine was reluctant to let him go and laid there listening to him breathe, the steady in and out like waves on the beach as he shut his eyes and let the day wash over him. "Did he at least take you out to lunch after all that?"

"He did," Blaine said, "And guess who we met at the restaurant?"

-#-

Blaine couldn't remember ever sitting at a restaurant alone with his dad, and yet, sitting there at Breadstix with the prodigal Anderson across from him felt oddly familiar. Not until his father ordered in plain English and spread his napkin in his lap before trying a breadstick did Blaine realize he was mixing the present with memories from his last lunch date there with Cooper. He hadn't realized how much Cooper had stepped up into the father role until then. It made him a little squeamish, small and powerless and... grateful, because what he didn't feel was alone, even if he was sure his dad was heading out again as soon as he finished whatever virtual itinerary he had set for this trip.

They'd been silent since leaving the doctor's office, and Blaine wasn't sure if that was because he wasn't asking the questions he wasn't sure he wanted the answers to, or if it was because he was so used to his father telling him how things were going to be that he'd forgotten how to ask. He wondered when exactly he'd been granted that privilege, how it was possible for distance and time to possibly make them closer, more equal when he still felt once or twice removed, small, and somewhat lacking.

Of course, now he was aware that what he felt wasn't always indicative of how things really were. The only way to know for sure where he stood was to ask.

"Should I be worried?" He stabbed a crouton which he suspected was made from yesterday's leftover breadsticks and smeared it in the dressing. "About the tests, I mean?"

"Are you?"

Blaine bit the crouton and chewed it slowly, focusing on just the crunch until it became too soft to hear, then swallowed. "I feel like I should be."

"And I think..." his dad studied him briefly, choosing his words, "that you should be more worried no one has raised these concerns before now. ARVC is a progressive condition. We can manage the symptoms, but there is no cure. We already know the outcome. The tests will just show us how far it's progressed and how near or far we are from that outcome. They won't really change anything, but they will give us a better idea of how you're doing right now... after everything that's happened. It should actually be a relief to know, I'd think." The breadstick he bit into must've been very fresh, because it made no crunch, didn't drop a single crumb in the long seconds Blaine studied his father's face, surprised by the openness.

Blaine ate a few more bites of his salad, mulling over the words. "Except the _outcome_ is death, right?" He was purposely blunt, then took his time swirling his straw around to break up the clumps of ice cubes before taking a long swallow, waiting for the punch to land, but it never did. Apparently, death didn't faze the man. He was a doctor, after all. His mother would've dropped her fork and hugged him across the table or tried to set it down calmly before excusing herself and walking too fast to the bathroom. He'd have been forced to apologize and hug her back, remind her that was years, decades in the future and never mention that he didn't believe it himself.

"The outcome to everything is death, Blaine." The way he raised his eyes to answer without losing rhythm with his fork and spoon as he wound the pasta into a manageable bite should have been disturbing, callous. Instead, there was a quiet reassurance in the statement, honesty and truth without fear, that Blaine appreciated.

"Except, in this case, we know the mechanism, right? The disease progresses far enough that I go into heart failure and end up on a transplant list. Then either I die waiting for a new heart, or someone else dies to give me one."

His father just nodded, a slight shrug to reinforce the sentiment, seeing as how he'd just taken another bite of fettuccine.

"And in the meantime, I go in for more tests, and if they don't like the results, I get to live with more restrictions that make me feel like I'm dead already." This time, it was Blaine who dropped his fork, his head ducking while he blinked through the tidal wave of emotion that suddenly crested out of the depths and washed over him. He hadn't meant to say that, hadn't been prepared to admit that, not even to himself, but it thudded against the wall of his chest in the familiar way he knew to mean it was true.

"Blaine?"

Both Anderson men startled at the interruption, much deeper in the moment than either of them had realized. Thomas used the beat to swallow the bite of pasta he'd stopped chewing, and Blaine brushed a sleeved wrist over his eyes before the flood could breach the break. He looked up over the fake ivy decorated partition that separated their booth from the hostess desk on the other side. He shouldn't have been surprised to see Finn looking down at him, considering he was probably the only person Blaine knew who would've been able to see over the divider in the first place. He was a little surprised at the somewhat stricken expression on Finn's face, though, and had to wonder just how much of that conversation he'd heard.

"Finn, heeey," Blaine greeted, standing. "Are you here alone?"

"Um, yeah." Finn's eyes darted around like he hadn't actually meant to draw attention to himself. "I was just picking up a To-Go order for the guys down at the shop. Burt's treating."

Blaine motioned for him to come around. "Sit with us while you wait?"

"Uh? Sure." He ducked down to let the hostess know where he'd be and slid around to their booth.

"Finn Hudson, this is my dad," Blaine introduced. "Dad, Finn. Finn is..." Blaine paused, not entirely sure how to describe their relationship, "Finn and I went to McKinley together until he graduated. Now he co-directs the glee club."

Thomas stood long enough to shake Finn's hand before sitting and re-positioning the napkin in his lap. "Nice to meet you."

Shaking off his initial awkwardness for a deer in headlights expression instead, Finn side-stepped closer to Blaine's side of the table.

Blaine noticed Finn's attire as he slid into the booth beside him. He was wearing a dress shirt, tie, and slacks. Presumably there was a jacket in the car. "A little over-dressed for the shop, aren't you?"

"Umm, actually," Finn fidgeted with his hands, unable to decide whether they belonged on the table when there was no silverware to hold and settled on letting them thunk onto the seat beside him. "I was just on my way back from an admissions interview at Lima Community College. This semester's almost over, but I'm in part-time for the spring." He said it with a nervous laugh, color creeping up his cheeks.

"Really? That's awesome! Congrats, man! Way to get your life back on track." Blaine patted him on the back. "Seriously. I know this is a huge step for you, especially with everything going on..." He didn't finish the sentence, figuring Finn didn't need to be reminded about his recent breakup with Rachel.

Finn returned the pat, perhaps a little too hard. "Yeah, well, you inspired me." He cleared his throat into his hand as he drew it back, "And I figured if I'm serious about teaching, and I don't want to have to fight Sue Sylvester in the lounge every day, I might as well go ahead and get my certificate."

"Good for you," Thomas commended. "Teaching is a noble and honorable profession. I used to take our public school system for granted, but after spending some time in a war zone, I realize how invaluable access to education can be. And public school, private school, home school, none of that matters. The kids who appreciate the opportunity will find the teachers who are willing to go the extra mile. Most of them are just looking for a chance and someone to point them in the right direction."

"Thanks." Finn blushed a little deeper, uncomfortable with praise from a virtual stranger, and Blaine knew, unsure of his own ability to stay on the right track. Blaine spent most of his childhood on that particular bullet train. "So, uh, Syria, right?" Finn deflected. "Blaine didn't mention you were coming back."

"He didn't know." Thomas wiped at his mouth before draping his napkin over his plate. "It's not all that easy to get in and out of a war zone. Security is pretty tight. We go months without getting any word from home at all, and getting anything out is just as bad. Apparently Cooper was relentless, though, and wouldn't take no for an answer until someone finally got a message through to me about..." his eyes darted toward Blaine, "that I was needed here. I got here as quickly as I could."

Finn nodded, looking a little like he'd been caught eavesdropping. "Cool. Uh, that's cool, you know that you would, just drop what you're doing and all." A pause as he fiddled with the nonexistent place setting. "So, you're a doctor? That's got to be a big help right now. I mean, with..." He broke off and splayed his hands out on the tabletop to stop them moving. "I'm sorry, dudes, I didn't mean to overhear, but the hostess was busy, and I was standing there for a while, and..." He cleared his throat, ducking his gaze between the other two before sliding it up to focus on Blaine. "You're okay, right?"

Blaine felt his eyes go wide, eyebrows lifting the way they did when he was trying to appear genuine about something he wasn't entirely convinced about himself. He preferred not to think of it as deception so much as potential future truth. "Yeah, yeah," he assuaged, mentally cringing at the higher register his voice slid into. "Fine." He cleared his throat twice with no success getting his larynx to unpinch before he conceded defeat and dropped the act. "Okay, look. No mention of this to Kurt, all right? Burt either, because they would both worry."

"Well, they're not the only ones," Finn advised, his forehead deeply creased.

Blaine nodded, pressing his chin to the tips of his fingers, prayer hands pressed together at throat level while he willed himself to find the right words. "Thank you, Finn. I know, and I appreciate everyone's concern, I do, but there's nothing to be worried about. My dad just thinks, in light of everything that's happened since I found out about my heart condition, we should go in for some tests to make sure that there hasn't been any damage done or progression beyond what we expected."

"And if you're worse?" Finn prodded.

"Then it's still completely manageable."

" 'Manageable' for how long?"

"Until it's not anymore. Usually years and years, though. Decades, even."

"And then what?"

"Then, IIIII, get a new heart." He pushed his plate away. "Hopefully."

"Like a transplant?" Finn asked. "Or like some bionic, cyborg type thing?"

"A transplant, probably," Blaine smirked, "but hey, twenty or thirty years from now, who knows? Heck, by then they might even have a gene therapy that cures it altogether."

"Yeah." Finn huffed half-heartedly, like he wasn't sure whether he'd missed the joke or the punchline. "Too bad it's your heart, though," he added. "One of my cousins had leukemia or something a few years back, so me and my mom got tested and signed up with, like, every donor registry there is, I think. First thing I did when I got my license was sign the back, and only part of that was to fix my karma after running over that mail carrier. If you needed a kidney or half a liver or something, bone marrow, even, I'd have your back for sure."

"Wow." Blaine's smile was more heartfelt and less cynical this time. "That's... that's really nice of you to say, Finn."

Finn shrugged. "Well, I promised Kurt I would look out for you while he's in New York. And if I've got more of something than I actually need, why not share, you know?"

"Finn!" The hostess interrupted the discussion by calling over the intercom to let them know his order was ready to pick up, and Finn excused himself with a nod and a quick shake of Thomas' hand.

Blaine squinted after him, dwelling on the irony that, cardiomyopathy and ventricular dilatation aside, the biggest heart Blaine knew belonged to Finn Hudson.

-#-

"So he's really going for his teaching certificate? That's great! I wonder if Dad and Carole know?"

"Uh-I, I don't know," Blaine admitted, rolling over to face the ceiling since his harm had fallen asleep from laying on it. "I hope I didn't ruin a surprise or anything."

"No-no, he's been talking about it ever since he started helping out with the glee club," Kurt said. "Good for him. But just in case, I won't mention it until he brings it up himself." After a few beats, "So how does your mom feel about your dad being back? Have your parents even talked?"

"Sure," Blaine rubbed the back of his neck as the sneaking suspicion he'd been pushing back all day started the slow climb up his spine again. "I mean, I guess so. I heard them talking from my room, at least until Cooper came up to say goodbye since he had to fly back to L.A. right away. I was asleep after Dad got home from driving him to the airport, but I'm sure they must've discussed the plans he had with me for the day. She probably had a lot of appointments she couldn't change. Or she just wanted to give us some space. I'm sure when she gets home tonight..."

"He'll be sleeping off the jet lag," Kurt supplied. "Blaine, it's none of my business, but..."

"It's nothing, Kurt. They're just really independent people. They don't share a lot of...interests."

"They share _you_ , Blaine."

'Share.' He'd never really thought about it, but now that it was out there, that was definitely not the word Blaine would've chosen. Finding the right one seemed like it would involve a lot of searching he was suddenly too tired to do, though.

"Anyway..."

"Yeah..." Blaine could hear Kurt's resignation, that newly acquired ability to take a step back he'd learned in the months since that night under the firefly tree, to let Blaine set and push the boundaries at his own pace, to respect that sometimes there was too much 'stuff' to just take it on all at once, all the while filing it somewhere in the card catalog of his mind to make sure it wasn't ever lost in the stacks forever.

Grateful, Blaine took the opportunity to herd the cats in a different direction. "So, Sectionals are on Thanksgiving this year. We're up against the Warblers again."

"Hmm, practically a whole month away, which means you haven't even started on your setlist yet."

"Actually, since the theme is 'Foreigner,' the group is kind of wanting to do 'Gangnam Style,' and I think Tina would rock it, as long as Finn can get Mike Chang to help with the choreography. I, of course, will be sitting that one out, since that dance is basically running in place very exuberantly."

Kurt's chuckle across the line vibrated through Blaine at just the right frequency to soothe away the jab of being left out. A year ago, he'd have been the one to suggest they needed a high energy number like that one in their set list. Now, though it was still true, he couldn't help the pang of betrayal that the show stopper would go on without him. Recognizing it wasn't a rational feeling didn't make it less real. Kurt somehow knew how to address the realness, make it valid, without justifying the rationale. Being left in the wings didn't make him less worthy of the spotlight.

"I'm sorry. I still can't get over Finn as acting co-director. I have this mental image of The Three Stooges meets the Mickey Mouse Club."

Blaine grinned, scrubbing a hand over his face as a way of dismissing the lingering disappointment and moving on. "This from a guy whose glee club did a stripped down version of 'Baby Got Back.'"

"Touché!" Kurt huffed into the handset. "So much! Adam's a little like one of those scientists in 'Jurassic Park,' too entertained by his own cleverness to realize that, just because something can be done, doesn't mean it should be."

"Well, now he's got you to keep him creatively relevant, just like Finn has me. Well, me and Mr. Schue, but Schue only counts when he's not rapping."

Kurt's noncommittal amusement hmmed into an awkward silence, and Blaine could almost see his brain working.

"What?" Blaine prodded. "You're thinking really loudly."

"It's...nothing," Kurt replied, but then too quickly followed it up with, "It's just..."

"What? What aren't you saying? Wait, is this about that internship? You applied, right?"

"Um, no actually, on both counts. I already told you I'd only be applying to to prove to myself that I could get it, and I know that I wouldn't be able to take it even if I did. Also, that's not what I was thinking about."

"Kurt, we talked about this. It's okay to have a backup plan."

"Not when your backup plan takes significant time away from your primary focus. I would never forgive myself if I didn't give NYADA 110% after everything everyone has done to help me get here. If I don't make it in this business, it's going to legit be because I'm not good enough, not because I didn't give it everything I have."

Blaine let that settle in the air for a second, the decisiveness in Kurt's voice just one more reason Blaine was crazy about him in the first place. Even if, in this instance, he wasn't sure the decision was the most prudent one. "Kurt, you know there are plenty of people out there who are good enough but never make it."

"Because they let themselves be distracted and took no for an answer. I'm not friends with Rachel Berry for nothing, you know. She may come off as loud, pushy, and overconfident-mostly because she is-but if there's one thing I know, it's that this business is designed to beat you down and make you quit. If you don't go in cocked to at least two-thirds Rachel Berry intensity, you don't stand a chance. After all, it takes more certainty than talent to be a star."

"Okay," Blaine granted. "As long as you're sure. I just don't want you to regret not trying for that internship."

"I don't, and I won't. But that's not what I was thinking about."

"Adam asked you out, didn't he?" Blaine tried to sound teasing, like it would be a good thing, and he'd be okay with it. After all, it was his decision to take a break from their relationship, and Kurt meeting someone else was always a possibility. In fact, Blaine would be lying if he didn't admit to spending some time wondering if Kurt wouldn't have been better off not meeting him at all, but he was really trying not to entertain 'those' type of thoughts.

At first, Kurt squeaked in surprise, "Wh-how did you... Yyyyeah."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense," Blaine mused. "What did you say?"

"What do you think I said? I told him I wasn't interested in being anything more than friends at the moment."

"I seem to remember a very similar conversation happening between the two of us, once upon a time."

"And that 'once up on a time,' is where my happily ever after is."

Blaine couldn't tell if he was being decisive again or if he sounded genuinely hurt.

"Blaine..." the crack in his voice said definitely hurt, "I agreed to this whole 'taking a break' thing because I know it's what you need, and I respect that. On some level, I'll even grant that it's probably something I needed, too. But if you think you're going to push me into the arms of some other guy in some grand self-sacrificing gesture to protect me from everything that's going on with you right now, it's not going to work. You are too important to me, and both of us learning to be fine on our own can only make us that much stronger for the inevitable-and I mean that-day when we realize that just because we _can_ make it on our own, doesn't mean we _should_." A beat, before he added, "And anyway, I don't want to. It doesn't matter what we're going through now, and I say 'we' because nothing you're dealing with is something I'd ever leave you to handle alone. None of it changes what we are, and that is endgame, Blaine. No matter how far I look into the future or what I see myself doing in that future, it all turns to fog if I try to imagine it without you. I can wait forever if it means you'll be there, too."

"Wow." Blaine didn't even know how to respond, or if he could, his throat clamped shut above the bolus of emotion trying to work its way back up.

"And you don't have to say you feel the same way," Kurt breathed. "I know it's hard for you right now to sort everything out. I'm just letting you know, that once you've got it figured out, one way or the other, I'm still going to be here. Friends or lovers, there's always going to be an us."

Maybe it was just a really long day, a really long couple of days. Maybe he was just so used to people leaving that he'd never really expected anyone would want to stay. Maybe it was just...everything, but suddenly he felt cut loose from something he hadn't known was weighing him down only to find himself firmly anchored in something he never wanted to lose.

"Thank you," was all he could work out of his hitching chest, before he giggled. "Did you actually just use Air Supply lyrics in a conversation?"

"And what if I did? My mom was a huge fan. We used to sing along all the time when I was a kid. I'm embarrassed to say, I was in middle school before I realized that wasn't a woman singing. And I may or may not have been playing their greatest hits on repeat all day. They felt relevant."

"I guess they kind of are. They could probably be the soundtrack of our lives. Could you imagine? Instead of Robin Thicke, I could've gone into the Gap singing 'Young Love' at the top of my lungs."

"Oh my Gaga, that's perfect! Tell me you're going to write this someday-an LGBT jukebox musical to rival 'Mama Mia' using our lives as the story and Air Supply as the soundtrack."

"It's already writing itself, but I'll only finish it with you as my collaborator."

"Of course. After all, I am the one that you love."

"Yeah, y'are. Now and forever, your love is why I want to give it all."

"Good lord, it really does write itself, doesn't it?" After a beat of silent affirmation where they shared breath the way they used to share touches, he sighed. "Blaine, I'm going to hang up now. You take care of you, okay?"

Blaine nodded, his fingers pressed into his eyes, forcing the tears back down his throat as he tried to breathe around them.

"I hear you nodding, by the way."

Blaine laughed so suddenly he choked on it. "I love you." He didn't even realize that was the first time he'd said it since... well, since, until Kurt was laugh-crying on the other end of the line, too.

"So much."

-TBC

 **AN:** I apologize for two things. I personally don't care for original characters in fanfiction. (I've been known to skip whole chapters of otherwise great fic if they focused on a character I didn't care about because they weren't on the show.) I tried really hard to just hand wave Blaine's dad the same way they actually did on the show, but I needed him, because Blaine needed him, and since they only mentioned him about three times (when Blaine talked about the car, right after the school shooting, and at the beginning of season 6 when he said he lived with his parent(s), plural) I had to work really hard to find a reason for him to not really be in the picture that didn't suggest he was a terrible human being who didn't care about his son. Hence, the Doctors Without Borders excuse was born. He's technically not an original character, since he does exist in the Glee!verse, so I hope people don't find him too distracting. Second, I apologize to everyone who wanted him to be a complete douchebag that would be easy to hate and blame for everything. That would've been way too easy. I would be interested in knowing what you all think of Thomas Anderson, and yes I was going for a Pam and Tommy Lee reference. I really am that cheesy.


	14. Sectionals

**AN:** There is in depth discussion of mental illness in this chapter from the perspective of someone with a mental illness, which means it may be both triggering and unreliable. Read at your own risk. Also, this is a B plotline chapter.

"I wonder what's keeping Mr. Schue," Sugar wondered, wrapping her words around the half pack of mint chewing gum in her mouth and the end of one lock of hair around and around her index finger as she stared at her phone.

Mr. Schue rarely, okay never, in Finn's experience, used video to introduce a lesson. However, he knew them all too well, and since he was late to rehearsal, he sent them a group text apologizing for his tardiness along with a YouTube link of what he had planned. Finn still wasn't sure what exactly his role of assistant director really entailed and so made sure that everyone noticed the message and set to watching the video himself. Since they were all sitting around playing on their phones in his absence, anyway, they pretty much got the message simultaneously. Which is how they all came to be watching the New Directions starring Kurt Hummel in a performance of Lady Gaga's "Born This Way." Finn remembered that one. It was Kurt's first group number after he transferred back from Dalton, and Rachel wasn't allowed to participate because Finn broke her nose in practice.

Not one of his fondest memories, but a lot of good came out of that lesson, if he remembered correctly.

"I don't know, but let's hope he didn't plan on using piano accompaniment. Blaine's AWOL again," Ryder pointed out.

Finn nodded but didn't comment. He knew how much Blaine had going on at the moment and that everyone was still hyper aware of the situation. Ryder pointed it out, but everyone had glanced at the empty piano bench before taking their chairs that day, silently wondering if they'd done any good addressing the school board or just made matters worse. Whether or not they changed the minds of any of the people in that auditorium, Finn knew that a few of their own minds had been opened. His own had been changed since that night in June in the wake of blue lips, bloodied knuckles, and electric paddles. Sure, they were all just kids, and they all had problems that sometimes made it feel like the world was ending, but he'd never actually considered that, for some of them, it might actually end before they got anywhere near the happily ever after. It didn't really seem fair.

"Alright, guys, sorry I'm a little late." No one had seen Mr. Schuester slip in, but he was already at the board, dry erase marker in hand.

"ACCEPTANCE."

Mr. Schuester dropped the marker into the tray and turned to face the group.

"Those of you who weren't here the first time we did this lesson, which is most of you, can probably tell from watching the link I sent you, that the point of that lesson was to accept something about ourselves that we had struggled to come to terms with." Mr. Schue explained.

"That was one of my favorite lessons, Mr. Schue," Tina chimed in. "Are we going to do Gaga, again?"

Mr. Schuester puckered his chin in consideration. "Hmmm, that depends, actually. Since we kind of already did an impromptu group number for the school board, I don't have anything specific in mind for music. This week it's more about the concept."

Schue swooped a piece of paper off the top of the piano and raised it up in response. "Yesterday, I got this email from the Show Choir Competition Board regarding some of the proposals I made when we had our big meeting here a couple weeks ago. We're going with a new format this competition season. First, they're doing away with the showcase at Nationals, so it will go straight from performances to results. They tried this format last year in order to allow more teams to compete and decided they liked it enough to stick with it."

"Second, there is going to be an overarching theme for the whole season. Each Sectional and Regional competition can still have a theme if they choose, but at least one of our numbers has to fill the requirement for the overall theme of the season AND be arranged by a student."

"Wait, we have to arrange it ourselves?" Kitty asked. "Again I ask, what the hell do we pay _you_ for?"

"Mr. Schuester gets paid?" Brittany wondered aloud. "I thought all public school teachers were basically volunteers. Why else is he still wearing the same sweater vests he's been wearing for four years?"

"Probably because they stopped making them ten years ago, and now he thinks they're fashionably vintage," Artie surmised.

"I for one think it's better to buy quality used from a thrift store than to buy new off the rack at Wal-Mart," Marley pontificated, trying too hard to be helpful.

"Um, thank you?" Schue rubbed his hands together, expression puzzled. "Now, back to Nationals. The overarching theme was actually something I proposed based on the discussion we had before the Fourth of July performance this past summer. Finn," he gestured to where Finn was sitting on his stool behind the drum set, "was astute enough to point out that our performances are one of the few times when each of you has a captive audience, and while you're on that stage, you actually have the chance to say something and be heard."

Finn grinned as recognition dawned. "Oh yeah, I did kind of say that, didn't I?" He'd been worried when Schue used the word 'astute,' but it sounded like maybe that wasn't a bad thing, so it was safe to take credit.

"Yes," Will confirmed, "And, as such, we shouldn't squander that opportunity on nothing but top 40 and showtunes. Now, not only will we have the chance to share a message with the world, but on top of the regular placings at Nationals, the judges will also pick the number that best delivers on the theme. Part of the prize package is the potential to have the winning arrangement used in a national television and radio campaign behind a public service announcement that will air on all the major networks."

"All right!"

"Awesome!"

"Oh my God!"

Mr. Schue nodded through the collective excitement waving his hands to try to bring things back to order after a few moments. "Ryder? You have a question?"

"Yeah. We already know the theme for Sectionals is Foreigner," Ryder noted. "What's the national theme?"

"And that's what we're all here to find out." Mr. Schue pointed at Finn. "Can I get a drum roll please?"

That's when Blaine let himself in, slinking past Mr. Schue with a wave of apology. "Sorry I'm late guys. I was talking with Miss Pillsbury and missed the bell."

"No problem," Schue dismissed. In fact, you're just in time. "Finn?" He gestured toward the drums. "Drum roll?"

Finn obliged, drumsticks bouncing in staccato waves over the snare head.

"The overarching theme for this competition season is... 'Stigmatized.'"

Confused silence.

Blaine slid his bag of his shoulder and onto the floor. "Wait, for the whole season? What about Foreigner?"

"We're still doing that for Sectionals," Tina explained, "but now there's a theme for the whole season." She leaned closer to him, "And the best number could end up on television!"

"Huh," Blaine pondered, his face difficult to read. "Stigmatized. Really?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Schue, but being half Jewish, I can't participate for religious reasons." Jake shrugged leaning back in his chair.

"Wrong definition of the word, Jake," Schue huffed. "Who can tell me what it means when something is stigmatized?"

"Doesn't it mean, something that is perceived negatively by someone on the outside," Marley offered. "Kind of the opposite of acceptance, right?"

"Almost." Schue rewarded her with a double finger point. "If one person has a negative perception of something, that's just an opinion, but when that perception is collectively shared and accepted, it becomes a stigma. So, to kick off our competition preparation for this season, we're all going to put together musical numbers which bring to light something about ourselves that we feel negatively about because of how we feel society perceives it. It doesn't have to be too revealing, nothing you're uncomfortable with sharing. This is just about opening conversations, clearing up misconceptions, maybe stirring up a little empathy where it's missing."

"I want you to each prepare a piece. You can do it alone or utilize as many of the other members as you wish. For now, I just want you all to present something about yourself as honestly as you feel you can through music. "

"Are you going to use this assignment to pick the number we use for competition?" Artie asked. "Because I wouldn't mind having my name in a program with a credit for the arrangement."

"Me neither," Marley agreed. "That would have to look good on a college application."

Sam, who'd been mostly quiet since the beginning of practice stood, his gaze directed downward raised his hand and just waited in silence until the murmurs died down. "Excuse me, Mr. Schue, but if it's okay with you, I'd really rather just work with Blaine on his. I mean, I have stuff I guess I could work up a number about." He huffed a lopsided laugh. "I mean, hello, homeless teen stripper here."

The rest of the room snickered with the sentiment.

"But, c'mon. You all heard Blaine up there the other night. The stuff he's dealing with..." He blinked a few extra times, his eyes glassy as Blaine turned in his chair to meet his gaze.

"Sam…" Blaine's head tilted, "You don't have to…"

"I don't want you to die, okay?" Sam wiped his eyes just before they got too full to run over.

"I'm not going to…" Blaine dropped his gaze.

Sliding forward in his seat, Sam dropped a hand onto Blaine's shoulder and gave it a slight shake, what Finn had come to think of as a one-handed bro hug. "I want you to get help when you need it and not have to worry about people making you feel like you're weak or doing something wrong. You're my friend, you know? And I feel bad, because we've been sitting in this room together for a year now, and I don't ever remember having a real conversation with you until the Student Council election came up. You were in the hospital last summer and none of us even went to see you." He broke off, obvious guilt pulling his gaze to the floor.

At that point, Blaine had had enough and stood, his chair scraping against the floor as he pulled Sam into a hug.

"None of that was your fault," he reassured. "I was so wrapped up in Kurt last year, that I didn't really reach out, and when I was in the hospital, I was… I wasn't in a good place, but I had Kurt and Finn, Burt and Carole, and my mom and Cooper. Even Miss Pillsbury stopped in, so I wasn't alone. Honestly, if any of you guys had been there, it would've been really hard for me to focus on getting better, and that's what I needed to do right then. You shouldn't feel guilty about that."

Sam pulled back with a nod but stayed hunched in his chair as he wiped his eyes again with a sniffle. "You're just working so hard to get better, and I want to help. Sometimes, I feel so helpless."

Blaine didn't say anything in response, but sat down in the chair next to Sam so he could keep a hand on his shoulder as he dropped his head."

Straightening, Sam addressed the rest of the room. "What we did in that auditorium felt important, like it really mattered, you know - more than a trophy or a title. I don't want to stop there. I think we need to keep the ball rolling."

"Me, too, Mr. Schue," Tina agreed. "I want to work with Blaine. I haven't been able to stop thinking about all the ignorance in the room that night, and I want to do something about it. I know I said I could use the program credit, but I've never been great at arrangements anyway."

Having spent most of the last exchange with his chin tucked into the knuckles of one hand as he wrapped an arm around himself, deep in thought, Mr. Schue asked, "Does anyone else feel this way?"

Ryder shrugged, "I don't even really read music. I wouldn't have the foggiest idea how to go about arranging a competition piece."

"Me neither," Brittany and Kitty agreed.

"Unique has herself a vision and a song in her heart, but she does not believe the world is ready for a Public Service Announcement about the need for unisex bathrooms in our public schools. I am onboard with whatever y'all want to do."

"Mr. Schue, the number Blaine did for Kurt's NYADA audition last year was totally awesome," Finn added. "And it's got to be hard on him sitting behind that piano all the time. I think he'd hit this out of the park. You know, assuming he wants it."

The last part was directed at Blaine as much a question as a statement.

"Guys, I…I don't know what to say," Blaine stammered. "I'm flattered, but that's a huge undertaking, and now I have to arrange for the Cheerios, too." He shrugged, "I don't want you to all put your faith in me and then let everyone down if I have to take a step back."

"Well, we've already got the music," Artie offered. "We can just polish the arrangement we did for the school board. Seriously, y'all, I saw some waterworks up in that audience. That number is already off the hook with pathos."

"Yeah, and I'd be willing to do the choreography," Jake offered. "I'm thinking something with more of a modern lyrical feel that lends itself to storytelling." He folded his arms and sprawled a little farther back in his chair as several of the members turned surprised gazes upon him. "What?!" he exasperated.

Ryder squinted at him. "Dude, you got something you want to share with the class?"

Jake huffed with a resigned slump. "Okay, so I may or may not be classically trained…in ballet." The last part, he coughed into his hand, as if that ever really worked.

"Really?! That's fantastic!" Mr. Schue was obviously impressed. "Why didn't you say something sooner? We can always use more input on choreography."

Jake shrugged, "Well, isn't it obvious? I'm a little embarrassed. I mean, a guy… a straight guy," he turned Blaine and added, "no offense, man," to which Blaine nodded to indicate none was taken. "Straight guys trained in ballet aren't all that popular. You just say ballet and people automatically think tutu."

"You mean, there's a stigma attached to it," Joe offered.

A slow nod as Jake contemplated. "Yeah, I guess so. I didn't mention it sooner because of the stigma."

"Now you're getting it," Mr. Schue remarked. "And that's perfect. A stigmatized dancer painting the audience a picture about the stigma of mental illness. This could really work."

A collective nod, everyone suddenly more enthusiastic than they had been since he introduced the lesson.

"Well, then," Mr. Schue ducked his head, fingers drumming on the body of the piano behind him, "If we have a majority, I'm more than okay with having Blaine arrange the music for our competition number and Jake, along with Brittany and Artie, of course, do the choreography. If, for whatever reason, however, Blaine, you ever feel like you need to take a step back, we will respect that. In the meantime, I still want everyone to prepare something for the rest of the group. Jake's already got his. What are the rest of you doing?"

A collective groan erupted, which Schue dismissed.

"Everyone in this room has a voice. Let's hear what you have to say. Volunteers to take the first slots tomorrow..."

-#-

"Wow, that's…wow. A whole competition piece? Blaine…"

"You sound less than enthusiastic," Blaine noted. It wasn't exactly the response he'd expected from Kurt.

"No! Blaine, that's amazing. You forget I was at Dalton when you were doing most of the arrangements for the Warblers, and despite my less than subtle jealousy at the time, I know you'll hit it out of the park."

When he didn't expound, Blaine prodded him along with a, "But?"

"Not a but, really," Kurt said. Then, "Okay, maybe it is. I just… I think it would be really easy to send the wrong message with a piece like that. I mean, what exactly do you want people to take away from it?"

"I think I know what you're getting at." Blaine held the phone to his ear by pinning it to his shoulder as he doodled random circles in the margin of his notebook, his go to thinking pattern of choice. "But I think everyone comes to the table with their own set of preconceptions. They're going to get out of it whatever they need to, I suppose. I think Mr. Schue said we're just supposed to open the conversation, not force a conclusion."

"So, you'd be okay if people felt sorry for you?" Kurt asked.

"You mean pathetic and needy?" Blaine chuckled.

"Your words, not mine," Kurt pointed out, referencing a more than self-deprecating rant Blaine had subjected Kurt to shortly after his diagnosis last summer.

Circles joined to circles, figure eights, pyramids, sunflowers, all circles stacking and piling together until the margin of the paper was packed and they started to push outside the lines and into the Chemistry equation he was supposed to be balancing. "Mmm, I know. That wouldn't be my first choice as a gut reaction, no," Blaine admitted, "But I started there. I'm sure some others will, too. Everyone has to start somewhere."

Kurt was silent for a moment, and Blaine wondered if he could hear the point of is pen scratching over the notebook in front of him but didn't force the conversation anywhere it didn't want to go. Waited.

"You're probably right," Kurt granted.

"Probably?" Blaine teased.

"Well, no, you're right. I guess I just wish everyone could see you the way I see you."

"Naked?" It was supposed to be a joke, but Kurt wasn't laughing.

"I know that's supposed to be funny, but you do realize how exposed you're going to be out there, right?"

"Yeah, but it's not like I'll be alone. The entire glee club is going to be there, and if you're really worried about exposure, I think Jake's planning to wear a leotard."

"Blaine, you're deflecting." Figure eights, pyramids, sunflowers. "I'm trying to express my sincere misgivings here."

"I know," Blaine sighed. A sunflower, a sunflower, a sunflower. "Kurt, even I don't see me the way you see me. We have to let people reach their own conclusions."

"Ahh, yes," Kurt tittered, the apprehension in his voice finally starting to fade. "One of the great tragedies of life, I suppose."

"What," Blaine wondered, "informed nonconformity?"

"No," a substantial beat. His voice was lower by a whole step when he continued, "that we've been on a break since July…" Kurt trailed off, leaving Blaine to pull his own inference from statement.

"I knew it," a chuckle as Blaine set his pen down, "you do want to see me naked."

"How do you know I'm not right this second?" Kurt pointedly did not deny Blaine's ridiculous conclusion.

Blaine laughed, probably longer than was necessary, then sighed. "I love you."

"And I'm so proud of you. You're going to make a difference, Blaine Anderson."

"I hope so."

"I know so."

-#-

"Yeah, I don't get it." Arms crossed where she sprawled back in her chair next to the one vacated by Marley, Santana looked down her nose at Blaine from across the black expanse of the piano. Less than a week to Sectionals, and half of the old New Directions had descended upon McKinley to mentor the newbies into a well-oiled competition machine. It was the first time they'd tried out their 'Stigmatized,' number on an audience that hadn't been there through the developmental stages. "Look, Sméagol, don't take this personally or have a meltdown or anything, but you know I don't pull punches when it comes to winning."

Blaine nodded. "I wouldn't want you to."

Santana stood up, arms still crossed, turning slightly to address the rest of the group as much as Blaine. "So, here's the thing. I know what that song is supposed to be about. I was there last summer when Kurt had to sing _us_ the song he wanted to sing to _you_ because _you_ were too messed up in the hospital to have visitors that day. I was there when Kurt made us all wear red scarves so we looked like Fred from Scooby Doo just so you wouldn't see the massive hickey you left on him the night before and freak yourself out because he was afraid you were too unstable to remember putting it there."

"Santana," Mr. Schue interrupted, "I don't think it's necessary to share such personal..."

"Personal!" Santana flared her hands. "That's exactly what's missing. I know where this song comes from, and I know exactly what it's trying to say, but I'm still not feeling it. And if I know that much and still ain't feeling it, then that audience full of old farts and the other teams' parents is not gonna get it, for sure."

Mr. Schue opened his mouth to protest further when Mercedes stood up.

"I hate to say it, but I agree with Santana. Mr. Schue, I think you're holding back on your critiques because this whole theme competition is your brain child, but Blaine, baby, since Kurt and I have been best friends since we were sophomores, I've known you longer than anyone else in this room, and I know that you are not okay with these kids phoning it in like that."

Finn jumped to Blaine's defense, parking himself in front of the piano. "Now, hold on a minute. You can't talk to him like that."

"No, she's right," Blaine sighed. "They're both right. It's just-" he turned to face the performers who were all looking a little shell shocked at being dressed down by their newly appointed mentors. "I know you guys are all doing this for me, I appreciate it. I really do, but I don't think you're really connecting to the music on this one."

"I've never even heard any of these songs before," Brittany shrugged.

"And I really only know my own lines," Tina admitted. "There's so much going on, I can't really feel how it all fits together."

Mr. Schue jumped it. "Noted, on both counts, but…"

"I miss dancing with Blaine," Brittany mumbled. "He has a really nice butt."

Mr. Schue shook his head, eyes falling shut in frustration. "However…" he revised, "I think that sort of disconnect is part of the creative intent of the piece. It's poetry instead of prose, more about the emotional picture it paints than about the story it's inspired by."

"No offense to Blaine or anyone else," Quinn interjected, "But there's a difference between painting a masterpiece and throwing paint at a wall. What this piece lacks is intent. All the elements are there, but it's like they're in competition with each other. It sounds like you're all intending to sing your lines, not have a conversation."

"C'mon you guys, you can't…" God bless Finn for always trying to quell the unrest.

"No," Blaine reiterated. "She's right. They're all right, and I should have said something myself before now. I just… I'm not sure I know how to…" He looked at his watch and pushed back the piano bench. "Mr. Schue, I know we're getting down to the wire here, but can I suggest we call it a day? I have some thinking to do."

"That sounds like a great idea," Mr. Schuester said with a nod. "Everyone be back here tomorrow, rested and ready to dig deep." As everyone filed out, obviously disappointed that things hadn't gone over as well as they'd hoped, he caught Blaine by the elbow. "Blaine, look, don't overthink this too much, all right? I've seen this before, and once the performance high kicks in on competition day, the music will speak for itself."

"That's the problem," Blaine huffed. "We're letting the music speak for itself, but it's supposed to speak for me." He shrugged his elbow out of Schue's grasp a little more abruptly than he intended, but then sighed and shrugged his bag across his shoulder. "Don't worry, Mr. Schue. I got this."

-#-

Blaine raised his hands in denial. "Uh, no. Thanks for seeing me after hours, Ms. Pillsbury, but please, no pamphlets this time. I feel guilty throwing them away, and they're starting to take over my locker. The one about hair products melting your brain slid out while I was getting my Calculus book out, and that neck brace Cheerio almost slipped on it and fell." He shook his head in mock woe. "I hate to think about causing another injury. She seems to be a really, really slow healer."

Emma slid her hand out of the drawer of her desk and slid it shut with a barely audible click before folding her hands atop the stack of color-coded manila folders in front of her. "Okay, well then, what can I do for you today? Do you need help with college applications? I heard that woman from NYADA was really impressed with you when you helped Kurt with his audition. Of course, that's assuming you're interested in pursuing a career in Musical Theater, like Kurt and Rachel. You've got many wonderful talents and could potentially go in any number of..."

"Um, no. I mean, yeah, I want to go into Musical Theater, and I thought about NYADA, but I checked, and they don't really have any infrastructure in place to support students with mental health, um, issues, so I have to reconsider." He paused abruptly, rubbing his hands down the thighs of his jeans. Ms. Pillsbury's ramble was contagious, apparently. "My dad suggested NYU-Tisch, but actually, that's not why I'm here."

Ms. Pillsbury nodded and shook her head at the same time. He wondered if they taught her that in guidance counselor school. "I'm sorry. I just assumed. It's that time of year, and you do have that look about you."

"Oh yeah, what look is that?"

She shrugged, "Oh, you know, lost in a corn maze with a combine coming down the rows to remind you there's no going back." Apparently noticing Blaine's bemused squint, she added, "I spend a lot of time sitting here alone and polishing fruit. It gives me plenty of time to come up with colorful metaphors. It's where I get all my pamphlet ideas, in fact."

"Good, uh, well. Your creative process aside, that's kind of why I'm here," Blaine segued. "I'm sure you know the Glee club gave me this big assignment for Sectionals, and I'm struggling a little." He scratched the back of his neck trying to remember why it was that he came to Ms. Pillsbury with this problem.

"Well," she smiled, "since you came to me with this instead of going to Wi- Mr. Schuester, I'm going to go out on a ledge here and suggest you're struggling with something else and it's affecting your music." Oh yeah, there was that.

"Probably, but my parents are kind of paying other people to work on that stuff." While some things had definitely been ironed out since his dad came back from Syria, he still felt more like a pet project and less like a son, especially when both parents were in the room together, which had been the case more often now that they'd decided family counseling was a good idea. And maybe Blaine had a better understanding on why his dad left now that he had a front row seat to the two of them airing their respective differences. He'd also learned in his sessions with his own therapist that just because his dad didn't leave _because_ of him, didn't mean that Blaine didn't have the right to feel left behind. So, yeah, things were kind of a mess at the moment. It was bad when the eighteen year old with the diagnosed mental illness felt like more of a responsible adult than the people charged with making him one.

"Uh-huh," Emma smiled, "Well, I wouldn't want to step on any toes. So!" She sat up, straightening the array of writing utensils to her left by some miniscule amount without breaking eye contact as she raised her eyebrows and blinked expectantly. "How can I help you with your Glee project?"

"I think... um," Blaine couldn't believe he was actually squirming. He could talk about practically any aspect of sex without flinching, but about himself? That was harder, which was really the crux of the whole thing, he supposed. "Well, the song is about me," he finally admitted. "In my regular sessions with my therapist, when I have trouble putting things into words, sometimes a song will just come to mind, and she lets me sing what I'm feeling, and then we talk about it."

"Oh." She perked up. "Are you going to sing for me?"

"No. I think talking will work just fine in this case."

"Okay, then, are you uncomfortable having the rest of the glee club sing a song that's about you, personally?"

He thought about that, then shook his head slowly. "I don't think it's that exactly. I'm okay with that, it's just, because it's about me, I think I'm more invested in it than usual, and I just want it to be perfect, you know?" Before she could point out that perfection was an unattainable goal that set him up to fail, he added, "And that's one of the things I'm paying someone else to talk about. I know it can't be perfect. I just feel like they don't really 'get' it, you know?"

"The other singers, you mean?" Ms. Pillsbury clarified. "You feel like they can't do the song justice because they don't connect to it the way you do."

"That's it exactly." Blaine exhaled, uncrossing his arms and relaxing forward in his chair. "I sort of feel like they're phoning it in, and I know it's not because they don't care enough to be real, but because it doesn't _feel_ real to _them_."

"And you think because they don't get the song, they don't really get you."

That wasn't even a question. Wow. Ms. Pillsbury missed her calling. Blaine could only nod, studying his hands where his fingers drummed over his jumping thighs.

"Do you want them to?"

The drumming and jumping stopped abruptly.

"Look, Blaine, they're your friends. They want to understand what you're going through so they can help you. If you can help them to grasp what you're feeling, then I know they will do their best." She leaned across the desk as if to put a hand on his shoulder but seemed to think better of it and picked up the bottle of hand sanitizer instead, placing three pumps in each hand before continuing. "But if you're not at a place, yet, where you're comfortable opening up to that degree outside of your therapist's office, then you need to accept that that's where you are and respect yourself enough to honor that, too." Her eyes darted slightly as she rubbed her hands together and slid the bottle back into its original spot.

"And if we lose at Sectionals because my piece isn't up to par?"

"Then you fail as a group who did their best on all _three_ songs that you performed, and accept that the judges liked something else better."

He nodded curtly, let it sink in for a minute before moving to leave. "Thank you," he said, almost under his breath.

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Blaine." He lifted his eyes to meet hers. "You have really good friends in that Glee club. Whenever you're ready to share yourself with them, I know they're ready to hear it, but you need to decide what's right for you on your own time, not on a show choir competition schedule."

"Thanks again," he smiled. "I'll think about it. I will."

-#-

When Blaine slipped into the choir room, having spent the remainder of his day heeding Ms. Pillsbury's astute advice, he was just late enough for the rest of the group to have already resumed the conversation from the day before without him. And they didn't sound any closer to a resolution.

Sam seemed apologetic when he caught glimpse of Blaine at the piano. Head ducked, he used both hands to push back his hair before locking them together behind his neck, gaze fixed on the floor. "Dude, I..." he exhaled sharply.

"Um," Marley raised her hand halfway. "May I?"

Mr. Schuester attempted to shrug off the defeated expression on his face, not bothering to unfold his arms when he said. "Sure, Marley. What you got?"

"I know I probably should've said something before this, but I- I feel kind of awkward singing these lyrics. You've heard what I normally sing, right? I've never even heard some of these songs, before, and even if I watch the videos on YouTube and try to sing them the exact same way, I don't really think I understand what I'm singing about. I'm trying my best, because I know there's a lot riding on this, but I-I just don't get it."

Santana smirked. "What, Marley Sue doesn't get the song about Lithium? Color me blown away." She accented the last two words with points of a red painted index finger.

"C'mon, guys, it's not really that hard," Tina said with a roll of her eyes. "The lyrics are 'I want to stay in love with my sorrow.(1)' How hard is that to understand?"

"It's probably not," Marley replied, "if you've ever been in love."

"Or suicidal," Sugar added. When everyone glared daggers at her, she glared back and stage whispered, "Asperger's," while pointing at herself.

"Okay, okay! That's enough!" Mr. Schue threw his hands up and stepped to the front of the group. "I know we all want to win, but we are not going to..."

"No, Mr. Schue. It's fine." Blaine shut the fall board on the piano with a clunk and pushed the bench back, willing his heart to stay in his chest where it belonged. "I've felt the disconnect for a while now, and I haven't said anything because I didn't know how to fix it. Or maybe I knew but didn't know if I wanted to go there." He stood up and shrugged. "You all volunteered to do this song for me, and I let myself get caught up in the technical production points so I could avoid answering a lot of the questions that I know most of you have. And really, it's probably a conversation we should've had before we even started this."

Sam shook his head. "Dude, you don't have to. I mean, the song is fine."

"No, it isn't." Blaine admitted. "And this isn't about the song. Well, it is, because wasn't this the whole point of the assignment in the first place? To start these conversations? It's about all of you being there for me and me letting you in. I haven't been doing my part. I think if you're going to sing this song for me, then I at least owe it to you to explain my inspiration." He gestured to Tina. "That lyric in particular 'want to stay in love with my sorrow,' probably sums it all up pretty well. In fact, I think I read that some Evanescence songs are considered triggering to a lot of people because of how well they present the experience. Mr. Schue, we might want to put a warning in the program."

"I'll make sure we do," Schue agreed.

"So, what does it mean to me?" Blaine scratched the back of his neck, studying his reflection in the gloss of the piano bench. "I guess that's the missing puzzle piece, right?" He waited for a collective nod and sighed. "Well, they used to refer to Bipolar Disorder as Manic Depressive Disorder, and that's because when people first notice something is wrong, it's usually the depression they notice, or as the song calls it, the 'sorrow.' Depression is like..." Blaine coughed around a constriction in his chest as he searched for the right words. In that beat, he turned slightly and caught glimpse of the familiar plaque on the wall at the back of the room. "It's like it says on that plaque over there. Glee is about opening your heart to joy. I think everyone in this room has felt that. That's why we're here, because the singing, the dancing, being part of it all makes us feel good. But what if it didn't?"

A quick glancing poll of the room told him he wasn't losing anyone too badly, so he coughed once more into his fist and continued. "Depression is doing all the things you love, throwing your heart into everything the way you always have and getting nothing back. It's opening your heart to joy, wide open, but none shows up. The joy is just gone. And it's not so much that anything terrible has happened -not always, anyway. It's about what's missing. Because you can't _feel_ that joy anymore, but you remember what it _felt_ like, and you still want it so bad, but it's not there, and nothing you do can make it come back, because your brain is just not capable of making those connections anymore. From the outside, everything is just like it always has been but from the inside, it's all washed out and colorless."

"Like the Counting Crows song," Artie supplied. "Colorblind."

Blaine nodded.

"And the Sarah McLachlan one - haven't seen the sun for weeks, too long, too far from home(2)," Kitty added.

"All I see, it could never make me happy.(3)" Blaine didn't realize he was singing the Switchfoot piece it until his voice cracked on the last note where he ran out of air from not taking a big enough breath to support it. "Sorry," he apologized. "Sometimes I feel the music when I can't really feel the words, if that makes sense."

Finn clapped him on the back. "We get it, dude. You just do what you gotta do."

Blaine nodded then patted his thighs, sitting up a little straighter. "So, there's that," he continued. "But there's also this whole other level of isolation, because if you can't understand why you're unhappy, no one else does either. After enough people tell you to suck it up and stop throwing yourself a pity party, you start to feel like you're wrong, like what you feel is wrong, and like you're doing it to yourself, and why can't you just stop..."

"I'm a plane in the sunset, with nowhere to land." This time Sam sang what Blaine was feeling, continuing with the Switchfoot lyric, and Blaine couldn't help but give a grateful hum, his eyes closing briefly as he nodded.

"Exactly. So, it's pretty obvious, after a while, that you're not okay, and if you're lucky enough to get help, you can learn to recognize what's justified and what's so deep that there aren't enough jars of peanut butter in the world to fix it." He darted an apologetic look at Mr. Schuester. "Sorry, Mr. Schue."

"But then, with Bipolar Disorder, there's this whole other layer. Sometimes you feel everything, and it's like... Superman, like every idea you have is pure genius, and anything is possible, and you don't have time to eat or to sleep, because you're so busy, so wrapped up, and so alive. And sometimes, that's amazing. Especially after you've been depressed for so long. It's like catching your breath again after you've been drowning. You get so caught up in it, that you don't even realize you're still drowning, because you've convinced yourself you don't need air."

"Ah la la la la la la la, life is wonderful,(4)" Tina trilled.

Blaine grinned appreciation but then let it fall as he continued, slower and darker, "Ah la la la la la la la life goes full circle." He broke off the song and looked up. "And that's the problem. Eventually the inspiration and the motivation becomes so urgent and you start to feel like you have to do it all right now, or you'll miss it, and if you miss it you'll never have another idea as good, and the pressure to do justice to the way you see things happening in your head gets so great that everything you're doing seems wrong, not good enough, and then everything you've done is terrible, and nothing is good enough..."

"Will I-I-I-I, divi-i-i-ide and fall apart?(5)" Artie chimed in.

"Only a man in a silly red sheet, digging for kryptonite, on a one way street(6)," Finn supplied.

"My bri-i-i-ight is too sli-i-i-ight to hold back all my dark," Blaine finished. After a beat, he went on. "And then you're back drowning again, only now it's worse, because you remember what it felt like to fly. It's easy to accept that you need help when you feel terrible. It's a lot harder to accept when they tell you the stuff that made you feel alive was just another kind of sickness. When I was diagnosed, my doctor was trying to help me recognize what a manic episode might feel like, and everything she described to me, I could remember feeling. I felt like that when I sang and I got the audience on their feet. I felt like that when I got a dance move right after practicing it for hours. When I got two songs to mash up even though they didn't seem to have anything in common. When I found just the words that someone needed to hear and I said them. When my dad said he was proud of me. When I _loved_ my boyfriend."

He swallowed hard, never actually having put these feelings into words before. "You can't even begin to imagine... It felt like, essentially what she was telling me was that they could make me feel better, make it so I didn't have to feel like I was drowning anymore, but they couldn't just treat one symptom; they had to treat the whole sickness. What I heard was, basically everything that made my life worth living either wasn't real in the first place and would go away completely, or it just wouldn't feel as good anymore. Like the reverb speaker I'd been tuned into my whole life was wired to the wrong mic, and I never noticed."

"Don't want to lock me up inside," Marley sang, her voice thick with emotion where before it had just been full.

"Don't want to forget how it feels without," Kitty joined.

"I want to stay in love with my sorrow." Everyone reprised.

"Don't want to let it lay me down this time, drown my will to fly." Blaine finished with a long beat of silence before taking a deep breath and sitting down and pushing the fallboard back. "Anyway, I hope that's enough inspiration for today, because I'm kind of done talking for now." He cleared the thickness in his throat, raised his hand like a conductor ready to mark the downbeat and said, "Sam!"

And Sam knew exactly what to do, putting on is best Forrest Gump drawl as he said, "And that's all I have to say about that."

Tension breaker. Needed to be done. And after everyone either huffed a laugh, rolled their eyes, or both, Blaine picked out the opening chord. "Ready to try it again?"

He began to play without waiting for an answer.

And this time, it was perfect.

-#-

Aside from being slightly emotionally traumatizing, (okay, it took two hours on the phone with Kurt singing Air Supply lyrics at each other before Blaine's hands stopped shaking) that day in the choir room seemed to have been the turning point for the 'Stigmatized' number which Blaine had mentally dubbed his Bipolar Anthem. By the time Sectionals rolled around, two days later, all of their songs were as good as they were going to get, and it was down to how the other teams performed and how bitter, intoxicated, high, or homophobic the judges turned out to be. Prepared or not, though, that didn't stop Blaine from having somewhat of a 'moment' backstage.

He was always wired before a performance, but he usually spent his backstage prep time putting on the character for the song. This time, the character was himself. Not only was he exposed more than he was used to, but he was alone. Everyone else had the dance number to rehearse and their alumni mentors to get last minute tips from. Blaine just really missed Kurt. Sure, it was mostly his own fault that Kurt had decided not to come home for Thanksgiving. He'd fed him some story about being stuck with his family for the whole weekend, not mentioning that 'family' meant his dad had him scheduled to spend his Black Friday being poked and prodded and scanned down at Wexner, the most likely outcome of which would be Blaine finally agreeing to the ICD. And wouldn't that be a fun way to spend the Christmas break?

Besides, Rachel and Finn were on the rocks, and she needed her roomie to stay in New York and commiserate with her. It was all good.

Sort of.

Or not.

Blaine peeked through the curtain to where his parents sat in the audience next to Ms. Pillsbury and the empty seat Mr. Schuester would fill once their performance was over. They weren't speaking, and the way their shoulders were tilted suggested they were doing their best to pretend they were sitting alone, but at least they weren't on their phones or still arguing about whether his mother's dress was too low cut or why his father still hadn't gotten a haircut because the ponytail was unprofessional. Maybe that was progress, or maybe they were just at a stalemate for the afternoon, mentally preparing for the annual fiasco that was the Anderson family Thanksgiving dinner.

At least they were there. Neither one had ever been to Blaine's performances before, and he was sure they were only there now because they were in competition with each other to be named the least deadbeat parent. It had been worse since Cooper went back to L.A. and taken himself out of the running.

Garbled voices from the wings drew Blaine's attention backstage. He was still partially hidden behind the curtain when two boys in familiar Navy blazers rounded the corner, gazes fixed on the programs in their hands.

"Hey, did you see that warning the New Directions put in the program?"

"I did. Pretentious, am I right?"

"Right?! Who's forward enough to say, 'hey, we're sorry, but if you're prone to crying and rocking in a corner, you might want to leave the room, because our music moves people like that.'"

"How hard are the judges going to be rolling their eyes at that one?"

"I don't know. I'll be too busy crying and rocking in the corner."

"Is that so?" Blaine jumped but not as much as the two Warblers when Wes stepped up beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder before pulling him into a hug. "Blaine! So good to see you, man." The hug backed off into a hearty handshake. "I noticed you checking out the audience, and I was just coming back to see you. Didn't mean to sneak up on you."

"Good to see you, too. I didn't expect to see any Warbler alums tonight."

"It's more business than pleasure, I'm afraid," Wes explained. "The Warblers have had some... problems upholding the Dalton image of late. The Headmaster refused to let them perform this year unless they had an advisor with them at the competitions. So, they knew I'd be home for the holiday, and they asked me. Of course, when I heard they were competing against you, I couldn't pass up the opportunity." His smile slipped as he took in the slightly stricken expressions on his two charges. "Warbler Skylar and Warbler Crispin, I realize that, as freshmen, and in light of the false start you were given under Hunter's direction, you haven't been fully indoctrinated into what being a Warbler truly means, so I will grant some leniency by not reporting this incident to the Headmaster. However, in the future, you'd do best to always assume that, while you're wearing your blazer, the zero tolerance harassment policy applies to everyone. In fact, it's pretty much common decency."

"But we weren't..." Warbler Skyler protested.

"We were just talking amongst ourselves," Warbler Crispin pouted.

Wes stepped forward, very nearly into their personal space with a stern glower. "Speaking with a complete lack of compassion and respect and in a manner which you would not have attempted had you been face to face with the person you were talking _about_."

"Actually," Blaine shrugged, "They kind of were. I told Mr. Schue to put that warning in the program, and I've been standing here the whole time. They just didn't notice."

Both Warblers shrank noticeably and dropped their gazes. "We- we apologize," Skyler offered for both of them. "We didn't realize," turning to Wes, "and you're right, Wes, we wouldn't have said that had we known."

Blaine clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it. You're entitled to your opinions. Just do me a favor and make sure you catch our performance. I'd like a shot at changing that opinion." He didn't feel the smile he gave them as a peace offering, but it was well-rehearsed and did its job. Both boys nodded vigorously and smiled back, obviously relieved as they promised to oblige.

Wes grinned himself as they watched the boys skitter away. "Well played," he said, extending a handshake that ended with an elbow clasp. "I saw your name in the program. Looks like McKinley's treating you well-arrangement credit and lead vocal. Way to go."

Blaine grinned, for real this time, but didn't get a chance to reply before Sebastian skidded up to them in haste. "Wes! We need you in the green room. Trent's having a meltdown about taking over Hunter's solo... again. Did you bring that gavel, because I think we should just knock him out until it's time to go on."

Wes shook his head, bemused. "I love the guy, but he's a Senior, already. He really needs to man up." He clasped Blaine's elbow before turning to go. "Duty calls, but it's so good to see you again. Don't let me miss you before we head out. Can't wait to catch your number."

Blaine nodded, shaking Wes' hand. "Good luck with Trent. Tell him I said, hi."

"Will do." Wes waved as he strode away, smoothing out the front of his jacket and fiddling with his cuffs.

Blaine watched him go, vaguely aware that Sebastian wasn't following behind, and finally turned to address him. "Sebastian? How's life on the straight and narrow path treating you?"

"Not as well as it's treating you, apparently." Sebastian met his offered handshake and covered it with his other for emphasis. "I saw your name in the program. About time McKinley appreciated the star power of Blaine Anderson. Too bad we're going to have to cut your competition season short, though."

"We'll see about that," Blaine grinned. "I hear the Warblers haven't exactly been at their best lately. Did I hear right? Hunter's gone?"

"That he is, and I'm not sorry to say, he will not be missed. Though shaking things up at the last minute has kind of put us at a disadvantage."

"Oh, don't tell me you're making excuses already?"

Sebastian chuckled. "No, we're still going to polish the stage with you, especially since the rest of your group is backstage rehearsing and you're out here fraternizing with the competition."

"I hate to disappoint, but you're not keeping me from anything. They're rehearsing the dance number, and I'm not in that one." He nodded toward the piano that was just behind them in the wings. "Just making sure the stage hands got my piano in place. We only have a few seconds to change up between songs. It's kind of a scatter drill."

"No way!" Sebastian scoffed. "I've seen your moves, Tiger. They're missing the boat stashing you behind a piano."

Blaine rubbed the back of his neck. "It's not exactly by choice, I'm afraid. Doctor's orders. No strenuous exercise."

Sebastian's expression darkened, jaw tightening slightly, but he smirked, eyes crinkling as he punched Blaine's shoulder. "What, don't tell me Hummel knocked you up?"

Blaine rolled his eyes but laughed, which he knew was Sebastian's intent. He'd forgotten how easily Sebastian slipped into flirtation mode, and while Blaine still wasn't interested, it was nice to laugh and talk when things had been trying too hard to get heavy and drag him down. "No, actually I kind of have you to thank for this," he quipped, not disliking the momentary flash of terror in Sebastian's eyes as he tried to guess what exactly he'd done. "When I had the surgery to fix my eye after you threw rock salt at me, they discovered an undiagnosed heart condition. If I hadn't been diagnosed and put on medication, I might just have danced myself to death at Nationals last year."

"You're kidding?" Sebastian grimaced. "Danced to death like that terrible episode of 'Buffy' where they were all cursed to sing about their feelings? That would suck. So, uh, you're welcome, I guess?"

Blaine side-eyed him. "I'm not actually thanking you."

Now it was Sebastian's turn to fidget. "Yeah. Huh. Of course not. It's just... wow, I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing to say. You wanna make it up to me, you can arrange for me to get your heart in thirty years or so when I need a new one. For now I'm fine as long as I take my meds and don't do anything too strenuous." (And didn't stress himself out thinking about the doctor's appointment he had coming up the next day.) "I'm pretty sure you hardly use it anyway."

Sebastian covered his heart and bent as though he'd been stabbed. "I'm wounded. Deeply. The Grinch's blackened ticker has got nothing on this baby. I'd probably match you, though. I'm O negative-universal donor."

"Wouldn't even matter. AB positive-universal recipient."

"Is it me, or does that sound like the plot of a bad porn movie?"

Blaine chuckled. "I wouldn't doubt that it's already been done."

"Probably," Sebastian agreed. "And anyway, how do you know my heart would even fit in there? No offense, Anderson, but you're tiny."

Blaine frowned. "I'll have you know my chest is normal sized, thank you. And it's not like you're the Incredible Hulk or something." He took a harder look at Sebastian, gaze narrowing. "But you do look, I dunno, thicker or something. You been working out?"

Sebastian coughed into his hand. "Uh, that's the, um, the pomegranate juice. They started serving it in the Dining Hall now."

"Pomegranate juice?"

"Yeah, uh, it's a super food, you know?"

"No, I, uh didn't..."

"There you are!" Mr. Schuester poked his head around the corner. "Blaine! They're about to start. It's time for show circle."

Blaine dismissed Sebastian with a wave. "Break a leg out there. May the best team win." He quickened his step as he approached Mr. Schuester who draped an arm around his shoulder and guided him back to the green room.

"You okay?" Schue asked, ducking his head closer to Blaine's ear. "I mean, wasn't that the guy who, uh..." he gestured toward his own face with his free hand as though he was wiping something off it, "in your eye?"

"Yeah," Blaine shrugged, "but he's actually trying to be decent these days. I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt."

They almost ran over a Mennonite man with a banjo and broke apart to go around him into the green room.

"All right, everyone!" Mr. Schue announced. "It's show circle time!" He clapped his hands together as everyone gathered around. "I usually lead show circle, but I think this competition, maybe more than any other, this has been a team effort. Every single one of you has stepped up as the leaders I always knew you could be, highlighting the amazing amount and variety of talent we have in this room. I think this performance will require each of us to reach deep down and connect on a level we may never have attempted if we hadn't all been motivated and inspired not only by all of our alumni who've given up time with their families to be here tonight but by one of our own who inspires us by not just being there to accompany and support us but to lead us by setting an example of incredible personal strength and perseverance. Blaine, I think everyone here is proud to share the stage with you, and as such, we have something we'd all like to say."

"Guys, you don't have to..." Blaine's voice shook, overwhelmed.

"From the bottom our hearts to yours. Puck count us in," Schue instructed.

"Two-three-four."

( **Young Love, Air Supply** )

 _Young love, so strong,_

 _has never been a part of me_

 _Young love, hold on_

 _We're feeling it now,_

 _Is this the way it's meant to be_

Blaine burst out into laughter, rocking back on his heels. "Oh my God! You guys! I'm gonna kill Kurt!"

"Young looove!"

"Hold on!"

Blaine covered his eyes, unable to look any of them in the eye as they each sang a lyric in his ear with over-dramatic heart eyes and imaginary microphones in their hands.

"We're feeling it now!"

"Young love!"

"So strong!"

By the time everyone had had their turn teasing and patting him on the back, Blaine had laugh tears streaming down his cheeks and finally just mouthed a 'thank you' before making a mock stage bow. Kurt was going to pay for this, but man was it just what Blaine needed.

"Places!"

Blaine spun on his heel and headed for the curtain, no doubt in his mind, they were going to kill this.

Or him.

Either way.

-#-

Despite having watched from the sidelines for the entirety of the time that they'd been preparing "Gangnam Style," Blaine found it infinitely more difficult to watch the rest of the club perform it without him. The crowd was eating it up, on their feet and dancing in their seats. The judges' opinions were the only ones that mattered, ultimately, but a captivated and enthusiastic audience was like crack. Even if they lost a competition, the audience was what kept him coming back. They pulled something out of him that he didn't consciously realize he was holding back, as much relief as exhilaration, made the hours of practice and soul searching pay off with dividends. Not everything in life did.

As it was, watching from the wings turned out to be something of an experiment in performance withdrawal anxiety, skin crawling, heels bouncing against the waxed hardwood. He tried to distract himself with a mental checklist of everything that had to happen in the upcoming quick change during Unique and Marley's duet, not the least of which involved moving the piano inconspicuously onto the stage and putting Brittany's hair up into a bun while stripping off her and Jake's costumes down to the ballet leotards underneath.

Suddenly, he couldn't remember whether they'd ever actually pulled it off in rehearsal. Half a dozen failures came immediately to mind: the time Brittany's hair came down three bars into the performance, and the one time she'd actually forgotten the leotard and pulled off her dress with nothing but her tights underneath, not to forget the time the wheels fell off the piano, and... they had to have gotten it right at least once. Anyway, it would work out today. Blaine thrived under pressure.

Peering out from the wings, movement down the center aisle of the auditorium caught his attention, and he noted the Warblers filing in, every one of them the picture of manners and discipline as they slid into a row of seats reserved for them near the front of the stage.

Close.

They were really close, like 'whites of their eyes' close, practically right under where he'd be sitting once the piano rolled out. His heart thudded in his chest the way he hadn't felt it pound since the night he came out to his parents. It made sense, he supposed. Assuming he'd done his job with this arrangement, then he was virtually coming out all over again, opening up about something private and personal with absolutely no control over how anyone would choose to take it. It had been easier the night of the school board meeting. Those people already knew and had already formed opinions. That was a challenge, fingers pointing, accusations flying, speculation rampant, no way he could have backed down. It felt good putting those people in their places, clearing up that bit of ignorance that fed into their prejudice, his duty.

This felt different, like pulling the scab off a wound that had barely started to heal without giving anyone the benefit of a warning about the graphic nature of what they were about to witness. And these people weren't just nameless silhouettes in an auditorium; they were friends, peers, the families of friends and peers, and judges. Judges. Those who were actually required to pass judgment. What if they didn't get it? What if they did, and they just hated it? Or hated him, just another bored, spoiled, rich kid rebel without a cause trying to make himself the cause?

Wes noticed him looking and raised his eyebrows in encouragement, a double thumbs up barely visible above the back of the seat in front of him. Then, the confetti cannons erupted as the dance number reached its climax, drawing everyone's attention to center stage, and Blaine was swept away by fellow glee clubbers peeling off from the back rows to begin the changeover while Tina and the core dancers brought the number home. He'd never felt more like throwing up.

As Unique and Marley took turns parking and barking their way through their duet, the real show moved backstage where Jake and Brittany were the star attractions. If everyone else's makeup got a little smudged or costume slightly disheveled in the transition, that was fine, since they would all be in silhouette, but Jake and Brittany would be center stage along with Blai...

"Crap!" The piano needed to move, _now_ , and Finn was... God, where was Finn, or Sam, Ryder even? And the bench wasn't where it belonged, either. Biting his lip, Blaine ran around to the side of the piano and lowered himself down into a half squat to get better leverage and started to push it toward the curtain.

"Blaine, dude! What are you doing?" He'd barely made it three feet across the stage before Puck grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around, Jake and Mike Chang falling on either side as Puck took Blaine's place, Finn sprinting around the corner with the missing bench.

"We got this," Sam clapped him on the back, he and Ryder appearing seemingly from nowhere. "This crowd's never going to know what hit 'em." His big, toothy grin made Blaine's breath rush out in an exasperated chuckle before he was caught up in the whirlwind of performers re-taking the stage.

As the lights went down, save the two spotlights, one on the dancers and one on Blaine, he found himself hunched over the keyboard, poised to play with no memory of actually having sat down in the first place.

As they had before, his hands began to move of their own accord, fingers to keys to strings, the vibrations wending peak and trough between the wavelengths of light and dark twining his spinal column. From the opening line of "Superman," the words peeled away in layers, blended together and wove in perfect counterpoint. Haunted.

It was a tad ambitious. A little overdone. Busy, chaotic, dark and fun. Depressed. Schizophrenic. Bipolar.

Perfect.

After the first verse, Blaine let himself go, didn't obsess over whether the dancers were on their marks or the blends were the perfect mashup of harmonic and discordant to get the audience squirming in their skins. After the first chorus, he stopped singing and started wailing, stopped suffocating and started breathing. During the second, he stopped playing and started being. In the bridge, he crossed over, left his body as his heart beat out of his chest, lost every confinement and pretense, and found... quiet.

 _I'm not crazy..._

 _or anything_

The song wasn't supposed to end with Brittany draped over his shoulders, his cheeks and hands salty and glistening wet. It wasn't supposed to end with Marley and Tina running off the stage or Jake Puckerman collapsing to his knees, wrung out and panting. Most noticeably, though, it wasn't supposed to end so... silent.

How did hundreds of people disappear into the ether? The air still crackled, thick and charged, ozone behind a lightning strike, but if there was a thunderclap, it'd been cancelled out somehow, melting into the last chord so all that remained was... nothing.

Outside, there was nothing, but Blaine knew where the thunder had gone.

"Did you feel that, Blaine Warbler?" Brittany's voice in his ear was just a whisper.

Of course. Yes. He felt that. Still felt it. It was _real_ , and it was _him_ , and the reverb was cranked so hard it knocked him off his feet. Taking a shuddering breath, he exhaled, nodding over the keyboard hard enough to shake loose the last of the tears, before sniffling back the rest.

"I think they're waiting for you," she added, squeezing his shoulders one last time. "Fly away, little bird."

She stood, one hand grasping a bicep and drawing Blaine up with her. At first, there was just the startlingly loud scrape of the piano bench sliding back across the waxed floor as Blaine's legs straightened, and then he turned, eyes downcast under the weight of his damp lashes and the expectations, hopes of the entire rest of the choir who'd put all their faith in him to bring this home.

He looked up slowly. His gaze barely reached as far as the row of Warblers long enough for him to register the glassy-eyed expressions gleaming back at him, and then the auditorium imploded. A shockwave of screaming and applause rippled through the crowd with Blaine at its epicenter, everything that had been ricocheting inside him boomeranged out and back amplified by a thousand percent. He might have fallen backward, blown away by the reception, if not for the rest of the choir suddenly behind him like the safety net meant to catch a human cannonball. Blaine couldn't help his face crinkling up into that ugly laugh-cry thing he knew it was doing as he took a bow, his back and shoulders vibrating under the onslaught of patted praise.

And it wasn't just his teammates, not just the Warblers, not even just Blaine's parents who, for whatever reason, held hands for the first time Blaine could ever remember, and had to clap awkwardly against their wrists with their free ones. It wasn't just his friends, former friends and parents of friends, sympathetic McKinley staff and faculty members. It wasn't Mr. Schuester, Mr. Hummel, Carole, Emma or the band. The entire population of the auditorium was on its feet, their faces a mosaic tapestry of empathy, grief, comradery and disillusionment.

They got it.

They got him.

And they didn't hate him. That was all he wanted.

It was like they'd already won.

And when they actually did win, after the shortest deliberation any of them could ever recall, Blaine still hadn't stopped vibrating. The uproar and general chaos of the awards presentation made it impossible to exchange words, but when Trent, then Sebastian, and finally Wes each forsook the traditional conciliatory handshake in favor of looking Blaine straight in the eye before hugging him tight and for just a little too long to be casual, the thrum began to quell. He was practically in tears again by the time they split apart, but it was just what he needed to slide back into his skin, content to have blood pounding in his ears, breath hitching in his lungs, and a genuine smile on his face so big it hurt. Happiness hurt. And that was okay. _He_ was okay.

Finding that every one of his teammates had deferred the congratulations to him and were now the only ones left on the stage, he couldn't think of one thing to say that hadn't already been said, nothing from his heart that they hadn't already helped him to sing, so instead he swayed back and forth, and shook his head before pulling his hands out from deep in his pockets and throwing them in the air. "Regionals, here we come!"

-TBC

(1)"Lithium" by Evanescence

(2) "Full of Grace" by Sarah McLachlan

(3)"Let That Be Enough" by Switchfoot

(4)"Life Is Wonderful" by Jason Mraz

(5)"Jesus Christ" by Brand New

(6)"Superman" by Five for Fighting

 **AN:** I know I wrote out the eating disorder and the cheating. I did warn you that I have a redemption kink, and both of those were story lines I didn't care for. I also elected not to send Will to Washington. He got to make a difference another way.

 **AN: Question for y'all.** Thanks everyone for sticking with me. The last couple chapters have been longer since I've been combining some while I edit. If I keep on in this manner, there is a distinct chance that I will run out of pre-written chapters before I've polished up the end of the story. The good news is I've jumped the hurdle that's been holding up my writing and have finally bridged the gap between the beginning of the story and the "All is Lost Moment," which was actually the first thing I wrote. Would you prefer if I kept posting until I've posted everything that's written, even if that means there's a bit of a wait for me to write the last chapter (or two) knowing that I write very slowly? Or would you rather I slowed down editing and posted shorter chapters so you always have updates until the story is finished?


	15. Control

**AN:** I still owe responses to all your kind words on the last chapter, but since I fell asleep editing this one, I'm now officially behind. I'm surprised and moved at how many people were touched by the last chapter but want to make sure everyone realizes that is definitely not the end of that plot line, even though the next few chapters will deal more with the A plot. Those of you who had a preference about how I post the rest of the story would prefer shorter chapters without long delays, so I will try to adhere to that, but as such, the chapters may not always end at what I would consider a logical finishing point.

 **AN:** Description of a medical procedure in this chapter.

"Just look at Dad over there and keep perfectly still." Blaine did as he was told. Lying there under a surgical drape with just his iodine painted throat exposed, he didn't feel like he had much choice. "Here's the stick. A little burn... and we'll give that a minute to take effect." Dr. Luxeter gave Blaine's shoulder a pat, leaning over into his line of sight. "You can breathe now, Blaine."

Straining his eyes as far to the side as he could to try to read the doctor's expression from his shielded position beneath the drape with his head turned all the way to the right, Blaine thought he must be grinning under his mask, judging by the depth of his crow's feet and the lines between his eyebrows. Blaine couldn't be bothered to grin back or to take his advice and breathe, for that matter. Instead, he just tightened his grip in his father's hand and tried not to think about what was coming next.

The myocardial biopsy was one test he'd managed to avoid on his first visit to Wexner six months ago. The spotty presentation of the disease at that early stage made it more risky than beneficial at the time, but his dad had insisted they at least try something called an electroanatomic mapping procedure to see if they could detect a large enough area of scarring to sample. Just Blaine's luck, the surgeon thought there was more than enough. As much as he wanted to blame his dad for getting him into that situation, he was currently too busy squeezing both of their knuckles white to waste any effort on animosity.

"All right, making the incision now… A little pinch… Port is in." Several beats passed as Blaine felt his skin shift and stretch under the surgeon's fingers, then a tickle like he'd swallowed a long hair. "There's the catheter. You're doing great, Blaine. This next part might be a little uncomfortable. I'll make it as quick as I can."

Blaine wanted to laugh at the suggestion that things were only about to get uncomfortable, as though the whole thing up 'til then had been bean bag chairs and down comforters, but his jaw clenched, clipping off the irony before it could mature into humor. Despite his determination to keep a brave face in front of his dad, a tear squeezed out the corner of his eye and rolled across the bridge of his nose when the surgeon inserted the long sheath that would hold his vein open far enough to insert the tiny forceps. It made him want to swallow hard, the way he would if he'd gulped something a little too large, and at the same time paralyzed him with the fear of what would happen if he did.

He forced his throat to relax, suddenly ultra-aware of the amount of saliva pooling under his tongue, and wondered morbidly if anyone had ever choked to death on their own spit. By then he was sure there was too much to swallow without jostling something out of place, but he couldn't just spit it out, could he? He could hear his heart rate speeding up as the telltale EKG bleeps sounded closer and closer together. A bead of sweat dripped into his eye, despite the fact that the room was freezing cold a minute ago.

"Here... hey."

He glanced up to see his father reaching over with a sponge. After dabbing the sweat off Blaine's forehead, he held it under his son's mouth. "Spit, Blaine."

Blaine did, grimacing internally at having his saliva mopped up like he was a helpless, drooling baby.

"Good. Now just breathe. You're doing great, Son. I'm so proud of you."

Unable to speak, Blaine couldn't help if the expression on his face suggested he didn't believe that for one second.

"Don't give me that look," Thomas admonished. "I'm allowed to be proud of my son if I want to." His gloved hand tightened around Blaine's as he gave a punctuating squeeze. "I don't give him enough credit, so I know he doesn't give himself _any_." He sucked in a breath through his nose as though he was preparing for a deep dive. "And that's a shame, because he's one of the strongest people I know, definitely stronger than I was at his age." Exhale. "He's got this."

Blaine recognized the technique of talking _to_ him as though he were talking _about_ him from one of their many family therapy sessions. He didn't mind the roundabout praise. His dad was trying. That was what counted.

"Yeah, I do," he whispered.

A second later, he hissed as the sheath was withdrawn.

"And that's it," the surgeon announced. "We've got our samples, and they're off to the lab. And I know this has probably been like the day from hell for you, Blaine, so you'll be glad to know that we're all done here. We're going to clean you up, give that incision a little time to close up properly, and then you'll be on your way."

"Thank you, Doctor," Blaine said.

"How soon will we know the results?" Thomas queried.

"Well, the biopsy samples will take several days. The lab was only running for emergencies yesterday due to the holiday, so they're a little backed up, but the rest of the tests we ran are probably sitting on my desk right now. If Blaine is okay hanging out in recovery by himself, you and I can go take a look at those just as soon as I get scrubbed out."

"That sounds good. I'll meet you in your office in ten?"

"Make it fifteen. I have to call my wife. If she doesn't give me a telephone play by play on every single Black Friday bargain she scored, I'll get home to find them all laid out in the living room, and I'll have to hear about it then. I don't know about you, but I have a date with three different football games when I get home. I don't want anything coming between me and my remote."

"I hear you," Thomas agreed. "See you in fifteen, then."

"Blaine," Luxeter addressed him by pulling his mask down and stepping close enough for Blaine to see him without turning his head too much, "you take it easy the rest of the night. We'll tape a cool gauze pad on your neck there, and you can tell all the relatives your girlfriend got a little carried away."

"Yeah," Blaine chuckled. "I'll do that." It really wasn't worth the effort at that point to correct him.

"I'm sure his boyfriend would take offense," Thomas smirked, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

They both watched in amusement as Dr. Luxeter mouthed an 'oops,' shrugged and slunk out of the room.

"You didn't have to do that, Dad. He didn't mean anything by it. And I don't technically have a boyfriend, either. We're on a break, remember?"

"You spend an awful lot of time talking on the phone and Skyping with this guy you're on a break from." Thomas quirked a knowing eyebrow as he gave Blaine's ankle a pat. "I'm just trying to move things along. I might actually like to meet this 'Kurt' person before I have to go back."

Blaine felt his cheeks flush as he tried to bite back a telling grin. "That could probably be arranged."

"Well then, make it so, Number One."

"Star Trek, really?"

"If I was you, I wouldn't mock the pop culture references of the man who just wiped drool off your chin. He might know the phone number of a certain older brother who would just love to hear all abou..."

"Dad!"

"Blaine!"

"I can't believe you'd take a moment like that and turn it into something dirty."

"I can't believe you think me wiping your spit up was a _moment_. What would you call all those times I changed your diapers, then?"

"Oh my God!" Blaine slapped the flats of his hands onto the top of the thin sheet and squirmed as best he could without dislodging his I.V. After a couple long beats where they just traded half-formed chuckles and grunts of acknowledgment, Blaine reached out and took his dad's hand again. "Seriously, though. Thanks, Dad. Just... for being here."

Thomas squeezed his hand and nodded. "I'm just gonna..." He gestured toward the door through which the surgeon had departed.

"Yeah." He crossed his fingers and held them up. "Thinking good thoughts."

"Me, too." Something in his expression slipped, but he patted Blaine's shoulder and smiled once more before letting himself out.

Blaine hoped good thoughts were enough.

-#-

"Are you sure you're okay?" Kurt stopped abruptly in the middle of his extensive list of things that he thought were amazing about the New Directions' performance at Sectionals to ask. Besides watching the livestream his dad had linked him up with during the performance, he had to have apparently watched a YouTube upload on repeat several dozen times in order compile a list that thorough. How he managed in the midst of Black Friday sales, Blaine would never know.

"Sure. Why?" He shrugged against his pillow, taking it easy per doctor's orders, though after the day he'd had, it wouldn't have taken much persuasion to get him to go lie down.

"You just sound, I don't know, kind of distracted. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm showering you with over-the-top accolades like some smitten preteen in a Justin Bieber chatroom. The radio silence is going to force me into desperation mode where I do something totally outrageous like mail you my underwear wrapped in love letters which I penned in calligraphy using a feather dipped in my own blood, sweat, and tears."

Blaine huffed amusement into the phone while scrubbing his hand over his face. "And I am more than blown away by your burgeoning obsession with the newer, darker iteration of Blaine and the Pips. It's just been a long day."

"Oh yeah, with the crazy family stuff?"

"Uh, yeah..." Blaine hadn't mentioned the doctor visit, and he didn't plan to until they got all the results back and a date set for the surgery. "Crazy family stuff. Speaking of..."

"Hmmm?"

"My dad wants to meet you."

"Well, I kinda figured that was inevitable."

"No, I mean, now, or at least before he goes back overseas in January." Blaine's free hand fidgeted with the fabric of the bedspread as several seconds passed in weighted silence.

"Really? Now?" Another extended silence. "Why?"

Blaine's jaw tightened, suddenly on the defensive, but he couldn't decide who he was supposed to be defending. "Well, sure. Why not? He might not be quite up to Burt Hummel status as fathers go, but he's really trying, Kurt."

"Nooo, I didn't mean… Blaine, I'm sure he's great, and I am so glad that the two of you are working things out. I just... I kinda got the feeling that the only thing he liked about me was the fact that I'm currently six hundred miles away. The few times he walked in on one of our Skype chats, he practically covered his eyes and darted out of the room like he'd caught you watching porn or something."

"What? No!" Blaine couldn't help but laugh. "Kurt, you've got it all wrong. You know how some people have that thing where they can't stand the sound of their own voice on a recording? Well, Dad has this thing about being videoed. He's convinced he looks nothing like his digital image and doesn't want to meet you like that. He hasn't had one negative thing to say about you since he's been back other than disparaging the insane amount of time I spend talking on the phone with you. Plus, I think he's just a little... confused, I guess, as to what our relationship is."

"Well that makes him and everyone else." The jab was punctuated by the crunch of one of the carrot sticks Kurt had been munching when Blaine called.

Blaine chuckled. "But between me, Mom, and Cooper, he's heard nothing but good things about you. He's mentioned more than once how glad he is that I have someone like you to talk to, and I think he maybe just wants to talk to you for himself. You should be warned, though, I can't guarantee it won't turn into one of those, 'what are your intentions toward my son' kind of talks."

"It couldn't possibly be more awkward than the talk I had with my dad the first time you had a heart to heart with _him_ about _me_ ," Kurt mused.

"At least this time I'm giving you a heads up," Blaine parried.

"Sufficient time to construct a response with which to allay his fears that I only want you for your body?"

"I would appreciate if you lied about that for both our sakes." They both laughed softly into a comfortable silence before Blaine steered them back on track. "Seriously, though. He wants to meet you. Maybe over Christmas?"

Kurt sighed. "I actually wasn't planning to come home for Christmas. Dad, Carole and Finn are going to Carole's sister's, and I need to save up a little cash if I want to make that tuition payment by the 31st of December. I know my Dad can afford to spot me the money, but I already pay less than half of it myself. Buying a plane ticket this close to the holiday would definitely break the bank."

"Come stay with us." Blaine rolled his eyes, certain he sounded desperate and needy. A thoughtful pause before blurting out the invitation would certainly have added some tact on his part.

"Blaine, I can't spend that much."

"What if my parents paid for the ticket?"

"Holiday airfare is practically extortion. I couldn't ask them to do that. I can always meet your dad this spring at your graduation."

Blaine sighed, biting his lip to keep his disappointment at bay long enough to plan his words carefully and avoid sounding completely pathetic for a second time. "My parents can afford it, and I really never ask them for anything. If I tell them all I want for Christmas is to see you, I know they won't bat an eye at the price."

"Blaine, I- I want to see you, I do, but I've never even had dinner with your parents. I can't help but feel like this would be a huge imposition." Blaine could practically hear him pulling at the back of his hair as he mulled over the decision.

"I know you want to say, yes," Blaine teased. "So just say, yes."

Kurt groaned, a sure sign he was close to giving in. "Do not even think about singing me a Taylor Swift song."

"If you won't do it for my dad or for yourself, then do it for me," Blaine offered. "I mean it." He lowered his voice, any hint of humor erased. "I really want to see you. I think we need to talk."

"Talk? About what?" If Kurt was trying to disguise the hint of panic in his voice, he wasn't succeeding.

"Nothing bad, I promise."

"We're talking now, Blaine. If it's important, why can't we just talk about it now?"

Blaine clenched his jaw and huffed through his nose, eyes shut as he pressed his fingertips into the lids. "Kurt, it's Christmas. It's a _gift_. Just take it."

Kurt's response was garbled and undecipherable, something between a yelp and a growl, a swallowed protest colliding against a gasp of reverence. After an extended beat in which Blaine considered apologizing for being too blunt, Kurt inhaled sharply."Who are you, and what have you done with Blaine Anderson?"

Mouth working around words that hadn't made it out of his subconscious yet, Blaine finally frowned. "Kurt?"

"I-I'm sorry." Kurt's voice had gone up at least a full step but dropped an equal amount in volume. "I'm just, not used to you being so... en pointe, about what you want."

"Is that a bad thing?" He had been working on being more of an advocate for himself but this was the first time he'd done it without consciously thinking about it, outside of his therapist's office. Maybe the impetus he'd needed all along was just the lack of energy to keep beating around the bush.

"No! Not at all." Kurt actually sounded like he was smiling, a hint of a chuckle in his inflection. "I like it... I think. At least I appreciate you letting me know how you really feel." Then he chuckled for real. "And if it's not too forward or inappropriate, it's kind of… hot."

Okay, so definitely not the reaction Blaine had been expecting. He lifted his head enough to slide one forearm underneath it and leaned into the crook of his elbow, lips pursed in thought. "I'm really not sure how to respond to that. Thanks? I guess? Or, you're welcome?"

"Or you could just tell me the reason it means so much to you that I allow your parents to drop an exorbitant amount of money on me this Christmas when I'll see you at Mr. Schue's wedding in a couple of months anyway."

Blaine stuttered, because somehow he thought 'I miss you,' wasn't a convincing enough reason, but he hadn't actually prepared the words to say more than that. He needed more time to be sure. "If you must know, there's something that I want to say to you in person, and you're really making this so much harder than it has to be."

"In person? What would you...? Oh, like... OH!"

Kurt had obviously reached some satisfactory, if speculative, conclusion, and Blaine didn't care if he'd reached the right one so long as he agreed to come home.

"Yeah, so, it's been a long day, and I'm really tired. I'll have my parents buy the ticket. Whether you decide to use it or not is completely up to you."

"Blaine, I'll be there. Of-of course I'll be there. I can't wait." Silence as they both realized the discussion had reached its logical conclusion even though neither was ready to hang up. Finally, "I miss you. You know that, right?"

"I miss you, too." Suddenly being tired wasn't just an excuse to force Kurt's hand. The weight of just how much he missed Kurt dragged him down and took every last ounce of his energy with it. Blinking slowly, he said, "So, I'll text you when I find out the flight information."

"Okay." Kurt sounded as exhausted as Blaine felt. "You take care of yourself. A-and congratulations again, on Sectionals, I mean. You were amazing."

" _You're_ amazing."

"Hold that thought, and I'll see you in a few weeks."

"I love you." He didn't care anymore if he was allowed to think it or say it. He just did.

"I love you, too."

Blaine dropped the call, never leaving the opportunity for a 'goodbye.'

-#-

Kurt should have known that once people found out he was coming home for Christmas, after all, he'd be needing an itinerary to stay on schedule with all the catching up he found himself doing- not the least of which with his own family. Considering his last final at NYADA was a full week before Christmas, and he didn't have classes again until the middle of January, he only felt slightly guilty spending his first several days back in Ohio at home. That gave him a chance to enjoy a special homecoming version of Friday night dinner before his family left for Carole's sister's on Sunday. The fact that Blaine was now a regular part of the tradition went a long way to assuage what little guilt remained. Kurt knew that Blaine and his dad had been spending a lot of time together at the shop when Congress was on break (most of last month, as luck had it, since it was an election year) but had somehow missed that Friday night at the Hummel's for dinner and then a video game marathon with Finn was now a thing.

Seated back at the family table with Blaine to his right, Kurt decided it was a pretty awesome thing.

Although, as lovely as it was to share small talk over spaghetti and homemade garlic bread, Kurt wasn't overly thrilled to find himself doing most of the talking: NYADA this, New York that, and how did he think he did on his finals. Any other time, he'd have been happy to oblige, but since his flight in that afternoon, there hadn't been much chance for he and Blaine to talk, most specifically for Blaine to take the opportunity to divulge about the mystical carrot he'd used to lure Kurt home. He had a feeling he knew what it was. At least, he knew what he _wanted_ it to be, and so far, in the weeks since Thanksgiving, nothing had been said or done to disprove his theory, but as of yet, no confirmation, just silence-comfortable silence, but still silence-at least on that front. And as adorable as Blaine was, grinning broadly with that little speck of tomato sauce on his cheek where a rogue noodle had slapped him on the way down, what Kurt would really have appreciated right then was a little one on one time (and possibly the opportunity to wipe that sauce off with his tongue-though that was probably jumping the gun just a little.)

At least the endless barrage of questions about college life in the big city kept his mouth too busy to overindulge in the spaghetti, notoriously one of his weaknesses, which Carole knew and had obviously planned on his behalf due to the fact that, in her opinion, he'd gotten too skinny. That didn't stop him from taking the time, while chewing a carefully twirled forkful of pasta, to think of ways to volley the conversation into Blaine's court.

He was still swallowing his last bite when Finn spoke up. "So, Blaine, you ready for some epic 'Call of Duty' tonight? Puck, Mike, and Artie are all in town and logging in around eight, and Sam's logging in from Kentucky about the same time. It'll be just like the good old days."

"Oh," Blaine cleared his throat and lowered his fork. "Finn, I-okay, well, this is a little awkward, but I can't. I've had a lot going on lately, and I totally forgot to tell you not to make plans for me to be here tonight. Is it too late to get Jake or Ryder?"

Finn frowned. "Um, maybe not, but dude, it won't be the same without you. No one else has a song for every situation to keep us motivated with rockin' backup vocals like you do. And it's supposed to be like a reunion. We haven't all been able to play together since graduation."

Blaine's eyes dropped to his plate. "I know, and I'm really sorry, Finn. I can't believe I forgot." Kurt didn't miss the nervous twitch in Blaine's posture as he shifted in his seat. There was obviously more he wanted to say but hadn't worked up to just yet.

"Now, Finn," Burt chastised lightly, looking between the two over the bridge of his nose, most of his upper body still hunched slightly over his food in an effort to keep the bitten off ends of pasta landing in the plate, "I'm sure Blaine has a good reason for cancelling. Don't give him a hard time for having more pressing matters to attend to than a video game marathon."

"No, of course not," Finn agreed, still obviously disappointed. "I didn't mean to give you a hard time, man. It's just, kind of a standing date. I should've verified instead of taking for granted that you were in. I'm sure you probably made plans with Kurt or something, and that's totally cool."

"Thanks, Finn," Blaine accepted. He laid his fork across his plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin, preparing to continue. "Uh, actually my plans are kind of..." He shrugged his shoulders unevenly, a failed attempt to stifle the squirm as his hand went to the back of his neck in an attempt to rub away the nerves. "I actually planned to save this for after dinner, but since we're here... I can't stay late to play 'Call of Duty' like I usually do, because I'm having some surgery in the morning. I have to get home at a reasonable hour."

Kurt instantly panicked. He spun in his chair to face Blaine, fork still poised. "Surgery? What kind of surgery? Three days before Christmas? Is that why you wanted me to come home? Are you okay? Is it your heart?" His knuckles whitened around his fork as he resisted the urge to grasp Blaine by the shoulders and shake the answers out of him. All the hinting and secrecy, the anticipation, all of it leading up to this?

Burt picked up on Kurt's distress and jumped in as Blaine blinked down at his spaghetti, an ever so slight but noticeable cower in both his expression and posture. "Kurt, son, I know you're worried, but why don't you give Blaine here a chance to get a word in edgewise? I'm sure he'll explain if you give him a second." Turning to Blaine, "Blaine? Should we be worried? _Are_ you okay?"

"Honey," Carole cooed, though it was unclear whether she was addressing Burt or Blaine as she laid her hand on her husband's wrist.

Blaine snickered nervously, not missing the way Burt inadvertently contradicted himself, and dropped his chin, talking into his plate. "Yeah, I'm fine, or you know, not in any real trouble. There's nothing for anyone to worry about. It's elective surgery, actually." After a slight pause, "I'm getting the ICD."

Finn had slowed his chewing but, in typical fashion, hadn't stopped eating, taking in the conversation around him with a slightly confused squint to his eyes. "What's an ICD?" He asked around a half swallowed mouthful of spaghetti.

Cheeks reddening slightly, Blaine darted his eyes to Carole. Kurt couldn't tell if he was hoping she'd explain for him or if he was afraid of attempting to explain it himself in the presence of someone who might be able to contradict him if he didn't get it quite right. He hated to be corrected, and Kurt cursed whoever it was that made Blaine think every mistake was a failure.

Whatever Blaine's intention, Carole picked up the thread, happy to share. "Well, Finn, an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator or ICD, is a little device that they implant somewhere around here," and she made a sweeping gesture with her finger under her collarbone to indicate the general vicinity of the incision, checking with Blaine, who nodded verification before she continued. "It's sort of like a pacemaker as it monitors the electrical activity of the heart and can detect when it isn't working properly. If it's beating irregularly, it can give a tiny little electrical pulse to try to balance it out again, and if the heart should beat too slowly or stop, it delivers a bigger shock, just like the doctors do with the paddles only from the inside and all automatically."

"Huh." Finn acknowledged, nodding his comprehension. "Cool. Sounds like a good idea." He went back to eating, curiosity satisfied.

"And I know it's almost Christmas, but the timing is actually perfect," Blaine continued, meeting Kurt's gaze for the first time since the revelation, eyebrows raised and seeking approval. "I'll be out of the hospital by Sunday, at the latest, and the incision will be mostly healed by time I start school again. I just maybe have to wear a sling for a few days and no vigorous arm movements for a month or so afterward. It's really not a big deal."

"It is a big deal, or you would've done it months ago when your doctor first recommended it," Kurt corrected, a tinge of betrayal in his voice. Despite his constant reminders not to get his hopes up, he'd really wanted to believe Blaine invited him home in order to officially get back together as boyfriends again. If he was honest, that was the only thing he wanted for Christmas. Blaine getting the surgery was definitely a relief, as Kurt had always been in the pro-ICD camp even though he never pressured Blaine one way or the other, but it felt a little like he'd opened the best gift ever only to find the batteries were not included. Disappointment pooled in his stomach, roiling the spaghetti into writhing snakes.

"I thought you said the whole idea kind of freaked you out," Burt added. "What changed your mind?"

Blaine picked up his fork and coiled another bite of spaghetti around it, his other hand rolling the corner of his napkin back and forth. "Well, my dad had a lot to do with it." He took the bite of spaghetti and chewed slowly, looking around as though he hoped that was enough explanation.

"He's not forcing you, is he?" Burt asked, sitting up a little straighter, something territorial in his presentation. "You're over eighteen(1), and if you don't feel right about it, like it might upset all the progress you're making..." his eyes dropped, "you know... otherwise," eyes back up, jaw tighter, "then you shouldn't let anyone pressure you, not even your dad."

Swallowing, Blaine shook his head. "No. Actually, he's been really cool about it. The first thing he did was tell me he understood, you know, why I didn't want it, and that he would probably feel the same way. But he also sort of made me see that I have kind of been sticking my head in the sand about this. I've been doing a good job of owning the bipolar and making progress on that front, but I've been kind of hand-waving the ARVC." He shook his head again. "I totally get that from my mom, and I guess since she thought it was okay to ignore certain things, then I thought it was okay to do the same."

"Ignore what things?" Kurt asked, his palms suddenly sweating.

Blaine paled slightly. "Like, apparently I had a really bad cardiac event while I was in Columbus Springs this summer, and she just accepted that it was a side effect from one of the medications. I was so out of it at the time, that I didn't even know everything that went on, but my dad really dug into it and thought something more might be going on." Blaine snickered a little. "He kind of tore into Dr. Schwartzmann. I felt a little bad for the guy."

"Well is there?" Burt set his fork down and picked up the piece of dry bread he'd been granted in lieu of the buttered garlic bread everyone else had. He held it poised to wipe the sauce off his plate, but clarified first. "Is there more going on?" Kurt knew the gaze he fixed on Blaine, and the way Blaine ducked his eyes away reflected that he knew it for what it was-that look that said his dad did not appreciate being left out of the loop on something so important.

Blaine's lips tightened into a line. "Yes and no, I guess. I had my six month checkup coming up anyway, so my dad got them to do some additional tests. I guess the long and the short of it is that more of my heart is affected than what they would expect at this stage, and the biopsy showed some inflammation, which just makes the muscle deteriorate faster. There's always some of that going on, even in a normal heart, but they suspect that the fact that I had two pretty major episodes within months of each other may have done more damage and advanced the disease progression. They're treating it with a course of anti-inflammatories and tightening down my exercise restrictions for the time being, and they expect they'll be able to slow it down, get me back more toward the center of the Bell curve, so to speak, but right now I'm in a hot phase, which increases the probability of random episodes. So, I really can't avoid getting the ICD any longer."

"Wait, that's what you and your dad were talking about at Breadstix that day, right? When you mentioned the transplant?" Finn looked pleased with himself for having put two and two together, though he flinched a little when Blaine glared back at him. "What? You said not to mention it to Kurt until you got more tests, but you just told him about the tests, so...?"

"Transplant?" Kurt almost choked in his haste to swallow the bite of garlic bread before jumping in. He quickly covered his mouth with the edge of his napkin in case any unswallowed portion might still be visible. "Blaine, do you need a transplant?"

"Noooo," Blaine consoled, pressing his own hand over Kurt's on the table. "Eventually, maybe. Like, years from now, but that's always been the eventual outcome. No, barring any major setback, the condition is still completely manageable with medication..." a beat, "and the ICD," he added as an afterthought. "And because they know I'm a little... anxious about having a device in my chest that can just shock me at any time, they actually got me in on this trial to beta an app that will let me check what it's doing any time I want to with my..." he shrugged, "with my phone and this little wand thing. The final version isn't scheduled for FDA approval until at least 2015, and the beta version isn't exactly bug free, but I do feel a little better about the whole thing, like I have more control of the situation, I guess.(2)"

Kurt exhaled, relieved. "Good."

A shadow flitted over Blaine's features briefly before he settled his hand back on the edge of his plate and picked up his own piece of bread. "Yeah, it's a good thing." Kurt noted a tinge of sarcasm. "Of course, I'm doomed to stay on my parents' insurance until I age out, because I have a pre-existing condition and could never afford my medication otherwise." He swabbed the sauce on his plate just a tad more aggressively than was probably necessary, his jaw tightening as they'd apparently hit upon a sore topic. He bit off a huge chunk of garlic bread, having said all he was willing to say on the subject. "But yeah, it's all good."

Kurt blinked back tears, not because he felt attacked-he knew Blaine's rant wasn't directed at him-but because he understood all too well the drain of being trapped in circumstances that made him feel powerless to control his own destiny. He couldn't even control his own mouth at the moment, opening and shutting around sentiments that, while placating, might not actually be true, no matter how much he wanted them to be. His jaw snapped shut before he made matters worse.

This was definitely not the Christmas surprise he'd have wished for in his letter to Santa. He felt his chin tremble with the struggle of containing his disappointment.

Carole jumped to the rescue, setting her flatware on her plate with a clatter, followed by her napkin. "Dessert, anyone? I made cheesecake."

"I'll help," Kurt offered, despite her look of protest. Cheesecake or not, he needed some air.

The hug from Carole, once they were tucked safely behind the closed kitchen door, didn't hurt either.

-TBC

(1) With regards to Blaine's age, I don't know when his birthday is. I decided he was seventeen when the story started and took into consideration that, in this version of canon, he repeated his freshman year. I know that I graduated as one of the youngest in my class and didn't turn eighteen until the summer afterward, so, considering he'd have graduated if he hadn't repeated a year, he would've turned eighteen by now. In my head he has a summer birthday, but I chose not to actually write it in.

(2) I had to play around with what I thought Blaine would be able to do with regards to the ICD and the app. I know what's available now but not what was available in 2013. I do know that some apps were in testing at that time so decided I'd make his a beta version and, therefore, have it do whatever I wanted it to. I basically read some reviews for apps that are out there now, what people liked/disliked/wished they could do, and made up a few things of my own for dramatic effect and can always assume those things didn't make it to the final version.

AN: Thank you always for your feedback.


	16. The Smell Before Rain

**AN:** I had intended to post this over the weekend, but I couldn't let y'all stay mad at Blaine for the last chapter. Okay, after this one you might still be mad at him, but at least you'll have his side of the story.

Blaine couldn't help but feel guilty about the way Kurt's visit home had started. Things hadn't quite worked out the way he'd imagined, which made him think he'd been spending so much time turning his focus inward that he'd lost some of his perception of the way he affected the people around him, or at least his ability to understand what they needed from him. He'd thought he was giving them that. Everyone had been pressing him to get the ICD. He was getting it. They ought to be tickled. In his mind, it was an early Christmas present to everyone that had been worrying about him without making him feel wrong, a thank you for giving him the time to arrive at that destination on his own. It was a good thing, right?

Surprise!

Maybe if he'd just scheduled the surgery a few days earlier so it would have been over when Kurt got to town instead of springing it on him…

Well, hindsight was 20/20.

He got the distinct feeling Kurt hadn't gotten the memo about how this was supposed to be a present to _them_ , the final hurdle Blaine had to get over before they could _be_ a them again. The way he'd disappeared into the kitchen and only picked at his cheesecake seemed a pretty good indicator that Blaine had missed the mark entirely.

He'd have to fix that, and he would, just as soon as the drugs wore off and he could trust his mouth to check in with his brain again.

He'd always been somewhat of a lightweight when it came to certain pharmaceuticals. They didn't even knock him out completely for his procedure, just gave him a little sedative to help him control his nerves and stay still, but he'd stayed semi-groggy for the entire day, first from having to get up at five a.m. to get to the hospital on time, and then from the after-effects of the sedation. Consequently, he went from metaphorically putting his head in the sand for months to being just incapacitated enough to avoid the after effects of Friday night dinner until Sunday afternoon when he got home from the hospital.

Physically, he was fine. Emotionally, he was mortified. It took at least two good arms, it turned out, to adequately apply the copious amounts of gel it required to complete the Blaine Anderson persona. Why hadn't he thought of that before he agreed to the surgery? Between that and knowing he'd somehow disappointed Kurt, he was out of sorts and not at all confident in his ability to do anything right ever again.

"I got it!" He shook off his dad's assistance getting out of the car, glaring out the open door and over his shoulder at Kurt who'd probably been waiting in the driveway for the last half an hour. Cheeks burning, he heaved himself out and slammed the door a little too loudly, eyes fixed on his feet. He hissed a little when the twisting motion pulled across his chest but brushed away the hands that reached out to steady him. "My feet work fine, thanks." His hair was a mess, but at least his feet still worked.

Which was why it was kind of ironic that he picked that exact moment to step onto the strip of ice left in the driveway when the car drove out this morning before it had been shoveled. He saw it at the exact instant that his foot went out from underneath him and had already resigned himself to adding a bruised tailbone or broken wrist to his general state of being not okay, when his dad caught his shoulder, and Kurt swooped in to catch him around the waist, careful of his left arm in its sling.

He didn't miss the silent conversation between Kurt and his dad before Thomas released his hold and let Kurt support him for the few seconds it took to fully regain his bearings. It made him wonder just how much time the two had spent bonding, 'bonding' being talking about Blaine when Blaine wasn't around to hear what they said. While he wanted the two to get along, at the moment he couldn't get past the burning sense of resentment that he knew was completely unjustified, and he really didn't give a damn whether it was justified or not. His parents paid a therapist lots of money to convince him to stop repressing things and accept that whatever he felt was real, no matter where it came from. And dammit, today he was convinced.

Or just tired.

Or both.

And a little disappointed.

Kurt had been back in town for two days now, and so far all they'd managed to talk about was NYADA and Blaine's surgery, both of which they could've done over the phone. Now, here he was clinging to Kurt in the driveway, wearing sweats, a day and a half worth of scruff on his face, and a squirrel running across the rain gutter and probably planning to make a nest out of his hair. This whole break was about Blaine telling Kurt that he felt like getting the ICD was the last step in owning all of his issues and getting his feet under himself enough to handle being in a relationship again. Instead, everyone was looking at him like he was about to fall apart and had probably spent all of yesterday talking about him while he was half out of it from the medication.

"You got it?" Kurt's face was impossibly close, eyes crossing slightly as he steadied them on the ice. Blaine could feel slender fingers at his waist even through the thickness of their coats and Kurt's leather gloves. Both of their breaths combined to frost over the top of Kurt's scarf while he waited for Blaine to answer, which was confusing, because Blaine could've sworn he was holding his.

His dad cleared his throat at exactly the moment that his mom opened the door and waved from the foyer. Blaine nodded, "Yeah," then shrugged out of Kurt's grasp and straightened before trudging up the steps.

His mom hugged him in the doorway, whispering in his ear before stepping aside. "Santa's elves were busy while you were gone, honey."

"Elves? Mom, I'm not five years ol-" He froze, just inside the foyer, his eyes going up, up, up to the top of the tallest Christmas tree he had ever seen, nestled against the staircase. The glow from the star at the top combined with the flickering flames in the fireplace to reflect an ever changing kaleidoscope array in the chandelier beside it. The railing itself was decked in entwined strands of garland, tinsel, and live evergreen branches, carefully frosted and adorned with glittering ornaments and lights. The sprawling red felt tree skirt barely peeked out from under the mountain of gifts that topped it, each wrapped in gold or white paper with carefully tied ribbons of silver. "Oh my- Kurt, did you do this?" he asked, eyes squinting upward. It had to have been Kurt. His parents hadn't bothered dragging out decorations for the holidays since Blaine was in junior high.

"While I've been told I have certain elvish qualities, no." Kurt shook his head, swaying over his feet. "Not by myself, anyway. You were kind of out of it yesterday and probably don't remember the way you went on and on about how much you wished you'd had a chance to decorate instead of dragging me to the hospital for my Christmas vacation. I, of course, took that to mean you wanted Christmas decorations but didn't want anyone to go to the trouble on your account. So, I recruited your parents, mine, (They send their best, by the way) and even Finn, before they pulled out of town this morning."

His cheeky grin and the way he shrugged his shoulders up to his ears made Blaine want to climb between the lapels of his coat and sway there against his chest where no one else could see him.

"Anyway," Kurt continued, "I got permission to use the decorations from the attic, and snuck back here while you were sleeping off your surgery to put it all up. I even got Finn to come over and help with lugging some of the bigger boxes. Speaking of... I should probably warn you that at least half of the 'gifts' under there are just the storage boxes for the ornaments wrapped up to complete the effect. Plus it saved us having to lug them all back up to the attic and down again."

Blaine couldn't help but reach out and touch, reverently brushing over the carefully placed ornaments he hadn't seen for years. "I made this one in Kindergarten." His voice was almost a whisper as he thumbed a glitter covered pine cone. "And this was Nana's," he said, light reflecting off the mirrored glass and back onto his face in dancing white triangles. He stepped back and took it in once more, so close to the tree that he had to tilt his head all the way back to see the star. "I can't believe you went to all this trouble. It must've taken all day."

He felt more than saw Kurt step up behind him, close enough that he imagined he could feel a static charge building between them. "Well, I needed something to do in my post finals letdown," Kurt dismissed, "and I wanted to make myself useful."

"You're on vacation, Kurt," Pam scolded. "You don't need to make yourself anything but comfortable." Blaine's mom had never been much of a homemaker, but she was a damn fine hostess. She reached out for their coats and scarves, depositing them in the closet. "You, too, Blaine. You look like you need to shed some skin," which was Anderson speak for shower and shave. "You freshen up, and I'll make hot cocoa for when you're done. It's only the powdered instant kind, but I'll make it with milk instead of water, just the way you like it okay?"

Blaine's jaw tightened, and he found himself folding his arms across his middle, right over the sling on his left, an uncertain downward tilt to his head as his shoulders slouched.

His mom must've caught on, because she patted his elbow and turned him toward the kitchen. "I'll fix you up with some Saran Wrap to go over your incision..." She stopped abruptly, sizing him up from head to toe. "I suppose you'll need help with your hair, though." Her voice dropped slightly as though she knew it needed to be said but was wary of the reaction she was likely to get. Her inflection changed, rising in the last syllable from a statement to a hesitant suggestion.

Suddenly hyper aware, once more, of Kurt standing there, watching his parents dote on him as though they hadn't just materialized after months of absenteeism, Blaine tugged his elbow loose. "I'm not a baby, Mama. I can do it myself." It was bad enough he'd been left behind, his illusory childhood unfairly elongated by the year he'd lost to hospitals and physical therapy as a freshman, but to be essentially de-aged in front of Kurt made whatever confidence and self-reliance he'd been rebuilding shrivel. How was he ever going to convince Kurt he was finally ready to be in a relationship again, the two of them equals, when everyone insisted on hovering around him like he couldn't be trusted to support his own weight from one moment to the next? "Where do we keep the Saran Wrap?"

He stalked into the kitchen and started pulling open doors, looking for the plastic wrap and, he supposed, some kind of tape or something to hold it. Suddenly, it seemed like his own kitchen was out to undermine him. Every drawer and cupboard he opened seemed filled with a myriad of normal, practical items that he hadn't even known they owned, which of course made him feel more like some coddled, spoiled child who'd never had to learn his way around his own kitchen. It wasn't like they ever used the good silver or china, or kept leftovers. If he'd lived mostly on takeout and cereal, it was because cooking for one seemed like a whole lot of mess for very little reward. If he only ever needed to find bowls, spoons, and coffee, it was because he was efficient. He took care of himself just fine. Had been for years. So what if he couldn't find the freaking Saran Wrap?

By the time he found the familiar yellow box, he was hyper aware of the fact that both his parents and Kurt had followed him into the kitchen and were being overt in their attempts to stay out of his way. He knew they were waiting for him to realize something they already knew but wanted him to figure out for himself, the way someone must look at a dog after they've put one of those electro-shock bark collars on it. They were just waiting for the mailman, or the neighbor's cat, or that squirrel that always ate its breakfast in front of the patio doors to come along and educate him about what not to do in that situation. But he wasn't about to ask for help. He didn't need it. "What?" he barked, taking mild pleasure in the way they all looked away. Holding up the Saran Wrap like the Olympic torch, "Got it." Deciding tape and scissors were most likely in the bathroom medicine cabinet, he started to skulk away. "I'll be in the shower."

"Vaseline," Kurt offered as Blaine brushed past him.

Blaine took one more step before pausing. "Vaseline?" His heart stuttered as his mother dropped her chin and covered her mouth with a cupped hand.

Kurt leaned against the door frame, one arm across his chest, hand on his opposite elbow where it dangled at his side. "Um, if you put petroleum jelly around your incision, then press the plastic wrap over it, it will form a kind of seal around the cut, keep moisture out, and hold the plastic wrap in place. At least, it will if you avoid using too much water pressure and no direct spray. It worked after my dad had his biopsy a couple years ago."

"That's really smart, Kurt," his mom offered, a little bit of a relieved smirk at the corner of her lips.

And just what was so funny? Blaine would've figured something out on his own.

His mother must have caught his glare. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "It's just...Vaseline," at which point his mother had the audacity to giggle. Not outright. She attempted to cover it, a blush rising on her cheeks, but it was there. And worse, his dad seemed to share the sentiment. He tried and failed to suppress a smirk of his own and ended up looking like someone trying not to yawn in church.

Only Kurt seemed to be as confused as Blaine.

"It's just... you seem so wound up, and I thought he was suggesting... Never mind," his mother dismissed, waving him off toward the stairs. "I'm obviously dating myself and my gutter brain. No one uses Vaseline for _that_ anymore. Just be careful in the shower, all right?"

"I'll help you with your hair when you get out," Kurt offered, suddenly overly eager to be anywhere except in the middle of that conversation. He didn't wait for Blaine to protest when he pressed close behind him, both hurrying and steadying his progress up the stairs.

"Kurt, you really don't have to..." Blaine started, his need to assert his independence warring with his desire to keep Kurt close.

"I forgot about that," Kurt interrupted, his voice muffled in the back of Blaine's neck.

"What?"

"They used to use Vaseline as..." he coughed, and Blaine recognized his discomfort, could almost feel the heat of his rising blush, "...lube."

Blaine stopped, the two of them halfway up the stairway but still able to see his parents just inside the threshold of the kitchen door. "You mean?"

Kurt nodded, the motion a tickle in the hairs at the back of Blaine's neck.

Any urge he had to assert himself as an adult vaporized behind the gag in his throat. "Mom?! Oh my, God!" His tone couldn't have been described as anything other than petulant, and he didn't care... EEEW! Because he didn't relish the idea of testing out his new ICD in the event that he over-exerted himself, he resisted the urge to sprint the rest of the way up the stairs and down the hall to his room.

That didn't stop him from stomping loudly the rest of the way and slamming the door.

-#-

Between Blaine's surgery and his spur of the moment holiday decorating spree, Kurt hadn't had a chance to properly unpack his bags. Waiting for Blaine to finish showering and hopefully shave without accidentally ex-sanguinating himself provided Kurt the opportunity to steam and hang his clothes in the guest room closet, a chore that usually brought him a fair sense of accomplishment and pride. Today it only provided a half-baked, at best, distraction from the swell of disappointment and worry that'd taken his holiday hostage. It was his own fault for letting himself get his hopes up and reading meaning into things that just wasn't there.

He thought he'd learned his lesson after the Gap Attack.

Sure, Blaine never actually said he wanted to get together over Christmas to... well, get back together, and Kurt definitely would've wanted to be here for Blaine's surgery, regardless, but why couldn't Blaine have just said he wanted Kurt here for moral support instead of letting him build this ridiculous fantasy in his mind of Christmas Eve snuggles and kissing under the tree?

He heard Blaine moving around in his room down the hall, apparently out of the bathroom, and zipped his unfinished packing back into its garment bag, along with his somewhat wrinkled holiday hopes, and scooped up his case of hair products.

Blaine's room was stuffy and humid from what must have been a scalding shower; even the vent fan whirring from inside the open bathroom door did little to dispel the steam. While Blaine struggled clumsily back into the sling, this time over a button down and Dockers instead of sweats, Kurt debated whether to knock or just walk in, never having been in Blaine's room as a houseguest instead of a boyfriend. He settled for rattling his plastic case and sing-songing, "Knock-knock. Avon calling." Then he shrugged and gazed up at the ceiling, "Well, more like Paul Mitchell, Uppercut, and American Crew, but they just don't have the same ring."

Blaine waved him in, trying to smile through his distraction as he splayed his hands in surrender. "I know I'm a little over-dressed for what's probably going to be Chinese takeout, but it turns out not raising my arm above my head makes it almost impossible to put on any kind of pullover, so..."

"Pish-posh," Kurt dismissed. "A man should never have to make excuses for dressing well. In fact, I have a festive pair of suspenders that will really make that look pop."

Blaine's squinty side-ways smile from beneath his dripping hair made the top of Kurt's ears warm. "Thanks, Kurt, but you don't have to humor me." The smile faded too quickly.

Not really having the energy for a classic, "You-no, _you_ ," back-and-forth, Kurt shrugged and dropped his bag of product on the dresser and pulled over the desk chair. "Fashion and hair care are no laughing matter, Blaine Anderson." He indicated the chair with both hands. "Now, sit and let me put you back together... your hair, I mean."

Blaine knit his eyebrows together. "My hair. Of course." He slouched into the chair with a tight-lipped smile that didn't even raise the corners of his mouth, his head tilted slightly until Kurt wove his fingers into the strands above his ears and tipped it straight.

"You won't believe how long I've wanted to do this." Kurt worked the strands of hair out to the ends, trying to get a feel for the length and weight. Blaine wore it a little shorter than Kurt preferred these days, probably to save time. Definitely not to humor his dad who was sporting something of a man ponytail himself. "I think just a dollop of gel while your hair's still soaking wet will go a long way toward defining the natural body as opposed to applying half a bottle in the shape of a hair helmet. A little pomade to mould the waves, and I think I can give you a really up-to-date New York City style that you'll actually be able to maintain on your own."

"Can you not?"

Whether intentional or not, Kurt detected a definite acerbic tinge to the statement. The way Blaine cast his eyes downward and started to cross his arms over his chest before wincing and lowering them to his stomach suggested definite intent.

"Not what?" Kurt wondered aloud.

"Can you fix my hair without _fixing_ it? Please?"

"Are you kidding? Blaine, who in their right mind turns down an authentic New York City makeover in the comfort of their very own bedroom? Now, c'mon," he spun Blaine's desk chair around to face the display of products he had lined up on the dresser. "I've been reading up on all the intricacies of balancing volume and frizz control, and everything I brought came with only the highest recommendations for your specific hair type." Giving the chair another turn to face the mirror, he worked his hands into Blaine's hair, working in a part and pushing up a little pouf in the front. "I was thinking a little something like this. It's kind of a cross between..."

"No." Blaine's eyes met Kurt's in the mirror, steadfast for the briefest of seconds before his gaze wavered down to his lap where he fiddled with the cuticles of his thumb nails while biting his lip.

Kurt stammered slightly, fish-mouthing around a thousand responses his brain hadn't crafted yet before finally settling on, "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." He suddenly didn't know what to do with his own hands. They came out of Blaine's hair easily enough but then just hovered there in the air like the talons of an eagle who's prey had somehow escaped its grasp.

This time it was Blaine who spun the chair. He faced Kurt before reaching up with his one hand to grasp one of Kurt's, placed it atop the other and drew them both down, his thumb stroking over the knuckles as he squeezed them for emphasis. "Kurt. Thank you. I'm... touched that you did all that research and went to all this trouble and expense for me, but now isn't the time. I'm feeling... a little out of sorts in my own skin right now. Can we not change anything else for the time being? I know you have good intentions, but I just want to feel like myself again. Is that okay? Please?"

It was Kurt's turn to drop his eyes. "Of course." _Of course_ , of course, what kind of jerks uses elective surgery as an excuse to force himself on the hair of his helpless, hopefully soon to be on-again, boyfriend?

"No, don't do that," Blaine beseeched, using his grip to pull Kurt in a little closer. "Don't get all disappointed and make me feel like I'm taking away your favorite toys." He scanned the assortment of product Kurt had laid out. "How about, you can use any of that stuff you want just as long as my hair ends up looking the way it does when I do it myself, and... we'll... take a rain check on that New York City makeover for when we're actually in New York City. At which point, I will give myself and my hair over to you, body and frizzy soul, to do with as you please." He gave Kurt's hand a tug imploringly, a gesture he usually followed with his best puppy dog eyes, slightly upswept through downcast eyelashes, but this time opted for sincerity, his whole face open, eyes somehow wider and darker at the same time. "Okay?"

Kurt smiled softly, just enough to pull in one dimple and convince Blaine he was okay even if he did feel slightly chastised. "Actually, that works out perfectly," he quipped.

Now the dopey puppy dog eyes made their appearance. "Oh yeah? How so?"

Kurt picked up the tub of Uppercut pomade. "This stuff is over twenty dollars a can here, but I know a wholesale distributor in New York where I can get it for half price and in bulk. And!" He paused, finger in the air to indicate he hadn't even gotten to the best part.

"And?" Blaine queried.

"And, it's only two and a half hours round trip via bus, train, taxi, and moped to get it. A steal!"

"Yeah," Blaine smirked. "A real steal. You always have been amazing at sniffing out a bargain." His smile faded wistfully as he brushed his thumb over Kurt's knuckles one last time before releasing the hand and turning back around to face the mirror. "I guess we should..."

"Of course." Kurt took the hint and reached for the gel.

After ten minutes of trying to make small talk and re-create Blaine's day-to-day hairstyle, Kurt began to realize a couple things.

First, he realized that he hadn't done anyone's hair besides his own and Rachel's in a very long time. Second, he realized how intimate and slightly erotic it was to have his fingers buried to the roots in someone's hair when that someone happened to be the person he loved and missed with all his heart. In short, doing Blaine's hair wasn't nearly as relaxing and fun as he'd hoped it would be. As the small talk got smaller and the elephant in the room got a little larger, Blaine started to squirm minutely under Kurt's ministrations. From ducking his eyes every time he accidentally met Kurt's in the mirror to fiddling with the seam of his dockers, he graduated to crossing one leg over the other and then switching at decreasing intervals. Kurt was about to admonish him when he stood up abruptly and grabbed his guitar off the stand.

"You don't mind, do you?" Blaine asked, settling into the chair again with the guitar across his lap. "I just... need something to do with my hands."

"No, I don't mind. I miss hearing you play, but are you... I mean, your arm is...?"

"The sling just keeps me from lifting it too high. I can take it off as long as I..." He finagled the sling off and replaced it with the guitar strap, keeping it low across his lap, "keep it kind of 'from the hip'." He shrugged into position, a little lopsidedly, but ended up comfortably hunched over his instrument. Only the far away expression on his face and the slight quiver in his fingers that he stilled against the frets hinted at something more intense brewing beneath the surface. "Any requests?"

Kurt's fingers worked their way back into the hair at the back of Blaine's neck where a band of tension coiled beneath the curls. Watching as Blaine's head tipped forward, a sigh releasing into his chest, Kurt declined. "None. Just whatever comes to mind is fine." He schooled a lilt into his voice to disguise the true fervency of his desire to know Blaine's mind and what exactly it was they were doing here. By then, his fingers seemed to have forgotten that they were supposed to be styling as they threaded themselves deeper, fingertips massaging at the knobs of skull beneath Blaine's ears while his thumbs worked the muscles at the apex of his neck.

The moment dragged on as Kurt watched. Blaine's eyes drooped shut, his fingers reflexively opening and closing around the guitar as if drawing something elusive out of the dark. His throat convulsed, Adam's apple working up and down around a song with no words and no tune.

Then, one string, one chord, pick and strum, an arpeggio, and something familiar wove over something a little more elusive, original in combination if not by creation.

"I don't know if I know this," Kurt breathed, afraid to break the spell but more leery of bearing witness of something he maybe wasn't meant to see.

"Ummmm," Blaine hummed, a barely perceptible shake of his head as his closed eyes crinkled at the corners. "Me neither," he admitted, which Kurt understood on some level. A song could be a familiar face with no name or a moment in time forgotten but entrenched deeper than memory could go.

Kurt's eyes slid shut as well, willing some spark down the connection between them, a bit of lightning to cut through the darkness, clarity.

( **Happiness, The Fray** )

 _Happiness,_

And there it was, Blaine's voice a little raspy like it had to climb its way out of a pit, the lyrics not quite meshed with the accompanying soundtrack, as if it was only one part of a four part harmony. Not happy at all.

 _feels a lot like sorrow_  
 _Let it be, you can?t make it come or go_  
 _But you are gone- not for good but for now_  
 _Gone for now feels a lot like gone for good_

A stronger downbeat, and Blaine's jaw clenched. His fingers picked a different line out of the base chord, his voice another lyric out of the ether.

 _(_ **The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot, Brand New** _)_

 _And if it makes you less sad, we'll start talking again_  
 _And you can tell me how vile I already know that I am_

Kurt's fingers stilled as Blaine's came to life, afraid of undoing the work he'd already done.

 _Happiness was never mine to hold_  
 _Careful child, light the fuse and get away_  
 _Cause happiness throws a shower of sparks_

As Blaine alternated verses between songs, pinging from one sentiment to the next, it became apparent that it wasn't his hairdo that was in danger of coming undone.

 _It's cold as a tomb, and it's dark in your room_  
 _when I sneak to your bed to pour salt in your wounds_

 _Happiness damn near destroys you_  
 _Breaks your faith to pieces on the floor_

"Blaine..." Kurt wasn't sure what he wanted to say, but when wind catches a kite with no string, you have to grab it by the tail or lose it forever.

Blaine opened his eyes and lifted his head, his fingers still working the frets and the strings, together and in counterpoint, but quieter, slower, Blaine's voice clear, pleading.

 _So you tell yourself, that's enough for now_  
 _Happiness has a violent roar_

Kurt blinked, something bulging behind his eyes like an altitude headache and threatening to break through. "Blaine, please."

 _You are calm and reposed_  
 _Let your beauty unfold_

 _Pale white, like the skin stretched over your bones_

"Pretty, pretty please, don't you ever, ever feel, like you're less than, less than perfect." The Pink song didn't fit quite right, but Kurt didn't know those other songs and didn't agree with the sentiment.

 _You are the smell before rain_  
 _You are the blood in my veins_

"Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel, like you're nothing."

 _Call me a safe bet_  
 _I'm betting I'm not_

"You are perfect to me." Kurt's hands had dropped to Blaine's shoulders, and while he felt a hug was in order, the best he could do was press the heels of his hands into his eye sockets before wrapping his arms around himself. When Blaine turned in his chair to look up at him, his eyelashes clumping together and heavy, Kurt couldn't form a word around the gasp that heaved out of his chest. He needed a few more breaths and a brief glance away before he could speak again. "What are we doing, Blaine?"

When Blaine wiped his eyes and ducked away without answering, Kurt realized he needed more than a moment.

"I-I can't do this," he choked out. He didn't know whether Blaine tried to stop him and was already across the hall with the guest room door shut firmly between them before he could change his mind.

-TBC

 **AN:** Okay, so now everyone's unhappy. Maybe it's time to involve the parental units…


	17. Not Actually Glee

**AN** : Sorry this is a day late. I went to do a quick edit and realized I pretty much hated the whole first section, so I rewrote it. I'm still not convinced it works, but it's the best I could do. I have to admit, my inner editor would delete about 70% of this chapter, because it's all dialog. I did not plan for my version of "Glee, Actually," to be this long, but once the parents got talking, they wouldn't shut up. I was tempted to call this an interlude, but there's some important exposition and foreshadowing that I couldn't put in any other way. Besides, if the whole plot of "The Shack," was to set up a conversation with God, then I guess conversation can be substantial, plotwise. I've also read enough fanfiction to know that most episode tags and missing scenes are conversations that we all wanted to see on the show but couldn't because of the format. So, hopefully there are enough of you out there who really needed some of these things to be said out loud. Thanks again and always.

"Look, Kurt, while I'm glad that the Christmas decorations went over as well as you'd hoped and that Blaine is back at home, I really don't think you called up at dinner time to share your second hand embarrassment about the implied uses for Vaseline. So, you wanna tell me what's up, or are you gonna make me guess? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, Carole's sister makes fried chicken from scratch, and the smell is driving me crazy." Kurt smiled despite himself, sniffling as silently as possible as he swallowed the lump in his throat. He should've known his dad would see right through his rambling.

"I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you, Dad. Go eat your dinner. I'll figure it out. It's probably just me..."

"Kurt. C'mon, bud, you know all that talk about dinner is just me trying to lighten things up. I can feel you vibrating from here, and that's saying a lot since the nearest cell tower's on the other side of Lake Eerie. It wouldn't be you and me if I didn't throw in a tension breaker, but I'm not too far away or too deaf to know you really need to talk right now. So, if you hang up this phone on me, you can consider yourself grounded from the time I get back to Lima until you get back on that plane to New York. And don't think I won't do it, college boy or not. Now spill."

"It's Blaine." Kurt took a hiccupping breath.

"Yeah, I gathered that. What about Blaine?"

"I-uh-I thought he asked me to come for Christmas so he could ask me to get back together again, you know, as boyfriends."

"Okay, well, maybe I've been getting mixed signals here, but I kinda thought that's what you wanted?"

Kurt crossed his free arm across his chest, felt it heaving around a sob he refused to release. "Yes, I mean, I thought that's what I wanted. I- I _do_ want that. It's just, now that I'm here, and this surgery came up, I can't tell if that's the real reason he asked me here or if that's the reason he _hasn't_ asked me about… you know, _us_. I thought he really wanted us to be together again, but we can't even seem to be in the same room without one of us saying or doing the wrong thing. It's… he seems scared."

"That's understandable. Aren't these conversations always a little awkward? And everyone fears rejection- Blaine, maybe a little more than most. You gotta accept that he's been working hard on himself and that he's changed. It's only logical that he worries about whether you'll both still feel the same now that he's different."

"I know, and that's... I'm scared, too. You know I would do anything for him. I would give anything for him… but what if I can't?"

The silence on the end of the line was interrupted briefly by some broken background conversation and probably the voice of a television news anchor, Burt Hummel's breathing steady as he chose his next words. "Kurt, no one expects you to be everything and have all the answers. A relationship is about taking care of each other. Being in a relationship with someone is about being to one another what no one else can be, not about being everything."

Kurt blinked, his eyelashes heavy and nodded even though he knew no one could see. "It's just... What if I'm not what he needs?"

"I think," Burt drew out the last word, and Kurt could almost hear him scratching his forehead as he tried to piece together what exactly it was that he was thinking. "I think people's needs change based on the situation. Some of those you can see comin', and some are gonna hit you where the good Lord split ya. Being caught short one day is just an opportunity to do better the next."

"N-no. No, I get that. I know about adapting and growing together, and believe me, I want the chance to be able to do that. I want it so much, but..." Kurt stammered, not quite sure how to express his apprehension, "but what if…I'm exactly what he _doesn't_ need? What if the only way he can grow is if I'm not in the picture at all?"

"Kurt… I'm your dad. I know you're not perfect. I also know that you're a good man with a good heart, and Blaine is too. Now, you and Blaine… you're gonna hurt each other sometimes, but… even if, eventually, it turns out that you can't make it work, you're going to come out the other side a better person for having had Blaine in your life, and he is going to be better for having known you."

"Dad, I want to believe that." He took breath and shut his eyes, steeling himself to name the monster that had been clawing at his gut. "I just don't like to think that everything that comes up when we're together is actually hurting him."

"Maybe that's something Blaine has to work out for himself. Isn't that what this break has been about? Giving him the tools to figure out which parts of your relationship are good for him and which aren't? Maybe what he needs now is the chance to find out if he can actually use them when it counts. Of course he's nervous. Everyone is before the final exam."

Kurt chewed at the skin on the inside of his bottom lip. His dad had a point, and Kurt had noticed a budding autonomy in Blaine that had to be the direct result of the work he was doing on his own and with his therapists. Kurt couldn't appreciate that one minute and question its authenticity the next.

But what if he accepted it at face value, because it was exactly what he wanted to believe, and he ended up missing something that broke them for good?

"You're right. He's working hard to figure things out. He seems to know what to say. He seems to know what to do. He _seems_ to be doing everything right." Kurt dropped his gaze to where his finger drew random circles over the fabric of his pant leg as he sat cross-legged against the headboard in the Anderson's guest bedroom. "I just wasn't prepared for him to look so... tired. Is it supposed to be this hard all the time? When does it stop being something he has to do and start being just who he is?" He felt himself curling inward, knew that if his dad was within arm's reach right then, those arms would be around him. "Right now everything seems, I don't know, fragile. When things are quiet, and we just _are_ , he doesn't seem like someone who's surfacing. It seems like what he is is drowning."

"Of course he's tired. Between school and the Glee club, therapy and work at the shop, there's all the stuff he never even bothered to mention, like doctor's appointments and tests. And he just had surgery. I don't think being a little worn around the edges is an indicator that he's not getting better."

"That's just it, Dad. I know! I know that, all of that, and it makes perfect sense when you say it, but when I try to tell myself the exact same things, I get this nagging feeling that I'm just telling myself what I want to believe because I want to be back with him so badly."

He ceased drawing circles and clenched his fingers in the fabric of his shirt where it pooched out slightly from his hunched posture. "Tonight I was helping him with his hair, and he started singing, like I wasn't there, and it was just him and whatever was going on in his head. All I could do was watch him and listen. I've done it hundred times before, and it always gave me some kind of insight into what he was feeling, a little clarity. Usually, that helps, and it makes me feel this whole other level of connection with him. But this time... something hit me, and now that it's in my head, I can't shake it."

"Is it something you can share with the class, or is this one of those things I'd be better off living in denial about?"

Kurt had to think about that, but not for the reasons his dad was probably implying. He had no problem telling his dad that, the moment he'd reached for the pomade, his fingers slightly sticky with gel and cloaked in the nostalgic scent of Blaine's shampoo and body wash, his mind hadn't come up with the title of the Brand New song Blaine was singing. Instead, it had supplied him with another name altogether.

Jamey Rodemeyer.

His dad might recognize the name. Kurt was sure that his father would remember the story about the boy who made the news, not by filming and posting one of those, 'It Gets Better,' videos but by taking his own life shortly thereafter. It was heartbreaking and tragic and everything Burt was trying to change in the world to make it a better place for his son to grow up in. The name of a child who never had.

But his dad wouldn't understand why Kurt thought that had anything to do with Blaine. He wouldn't get how the Blaine with all the answers and was working so hard to make the right choices and say the right things reminded him of the boy who wanted everyone to believe it gets better when he apparently couldn't believe it himself.

After a moment of contemplative silence, Kurt decided to try a different approach, hoping he wasn't breaking Blaine's confidence in doing so. "Blaine drives a Prius," he said, which wasn't exactly the truthful answer to Burt's question, but it was an answer.

"And you have an irrational prejudice against hybrid cars?" Burt ventured. Kurt could hear him rubbing a hand over his face in frustration, knew that if he wasn't indoors, he'd be removing his ball cap to scratch his bald head.

"He and his dad rebuilt a muscle car together, and yet he drives a Prius," Kurt explained. "Did he ever tell you why they sold the Chevy?"

"Well, sort of," Burt sighed. "His mom mentioned the 'accident' he had."

"He fell asleep in the back seat with the engine running and the garage doors closed, Dad. He almost died."

"I know. I also know it scared his mom so bad that she sold the car, and he's not proud of that. But it was a mistake. He said himself it was an accident. It's not like he intended to..."

"No," Kurt agreed, "He never intended to hurt himself, and I believe that, but he didn't save himself either."

"He couldn't. He was overcome with fumes before he realized what was happening."

"But he wasn't." Kurt sucked his lower lip between his teeth, reluctant to share something he'd learned in confidence but was unable to keep to himself now that it seemed so much more relevant than Blaine had led him to believe. "He told me that he started to feel sick and knew that he'd forgotten to open the door, but he didn't do anything about it."

"So, he wanted to…"

Kurt took a long, shuddering breath, the lifted weight of the revelation releasing something he'd had compressed too tightly to breathe around. "He said he realized he was in trouble but he was just so tired and it was just so easy to shut his eyes and go to sleep." He choked a little on the next words and had to swallow before he could continue. "He maybe didn't go in there to hurt himself, but he decided in a split second that he wasn't worth saving. Dad, if his mom hadn't come home early that day and found him, it wouldn't matter what he _intended_ to do in that garage. It would only matter that he died when he could have saved himself."

Kurt waited for his dad to say something, anything, an expression of surprise or disbelief, some reassurance that, while terrible, that was all in the past now. Instead, what he got, after an uncomfortably long silence where Kurt had to imagine his dad fighting back tears or clenching his fist against the table and willing anyone to give him something to swing at, was, "That... changes things."

"So you understand why I'm worried, then?" Kurt hated that he sounded hopeful, hopeful that he'd successfully deposited some of his worry and burden on shoulders stronger than his own.

"I do," Burt conceded, "And I have to tell ya, Kurt, it's probably going to affect the way I see and hear things going forward."

"I feel like he's so caught up in putting the rest of us at ease that he's not taking care of himself at all. And what happens when it wears him down? If it only takes a second to give up…"

"Look, Kurt, I don't know what you want me to tell you here. I get what you're saying, and I get where it's coming from, but I gotta tell ya, I'm not ready to say that Blaine's not getting better. He's making progress and doing everything his doctors are telling him to do. Maybe right now he's still in the 'fake it 'til you make it' stage or whatever, but just because he's not doing as well as you'd hoped doesn't mean he's failing."

"I know!" He was probably too forceful in his statement, but he really hadn't meant to imply that. Not at all. "No... I would never want to negate all the progress he's making. I do see changes, really positive changes. I guess I'm just scared because it seems like so much to deal with, and I know what happens if it gets to be too much. Seeing him so worn down is... Dad, when we get back together, I want to believe it will be forever. And excuse me if I'm selfish, but I'm hoping forever turns out to be a really long time and not just until he has a setback and decides he's a failure or not worth the effort anymore."

"And you don't think you can help him see that he _is_ worth the effort?"

"No, that's not it," Kurt tugged his fingers in his hair as if he could physically extract what he was trying to say. "I don't think he'll let me help him. I think he has been doing all of this to prove that he's strong enough to be with me and forgotten that the whole point was to learn how to be strong enough to be with himself."

"And the first time you two have a fight he'll think he's a failure."

"That's exactly it," Kurt breathed. "Part of me wants to jump right back in there with him and promise him that whatever he can't handle alone we'll handle together, but another part of me knows if he's not happy... I can't be that for him. Next week his dad and I both get on that flight to New York and leave him here. How do I know he's not going to go home and blame himself for being left behind? He's his own bully."

"And what if he puts himself out there and asks you to get back together and you turn him down?"

Kurt huffed, blowing his now loosened hair off of his forehead and curling further over himself, arms wrapped around his bent knees. "Then there's that."

Somewhere on the other end of the line, the television anchorwoman was replaced with something that sounded like one of those classic Claymation Christmas specials he'd loved as a kid, and Kurt realized just how much time had passed. He wondered if the Andersons were about to call him down for dinner, or if they were giving him his space.

Finally, Burt sighed. "Look, Kurt, I love you, and Blaine is practically a third son to me. Without a crystal ball to see the future, I don't think I can give you one answer here that's going to make everything come up unicorns and butterflies. Life just doesn't work that way. I can't see where the line is between being someone's support system and being their crutch or tell you that whether you get back together with him now or somewhere down the line will be the deciding factor in whether you can make it last forever."

"What I know is you two have already saved each other more than once, and that was flying blind and trusting your guts. I think you're so worried about being hurt or hurting each other that you're letting your head duke it out with your gut and shooting yourself in the foot in the process. It doesn't have to be as hard as you're making it. Believe me, no matter what choice you make, whether it turns out to be right or wrong has less to do with whether it was the smart thing to do or whether it just felt right at the time. It's about all the other choices you make after it." There was a brief beat before he added, "That being said, maybe you're asking yourself the wrong question here."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you want to be with him as much as you say you do, hell, as much as I _know_ you do, then maybe the real question is why are you waiting for _him_ to ask _you_?"

"I'm giving him his space, like he asked me to."

"And if you give someone enough rope... Christ! I'm not going to finish that. I think my stomach is commandeering my brain. Kurt, all I'm saying is, if you're sure you want to be with him, why are you waiting for him to prove to himself that he's good enough and, in the process, come up with a thousand reasons why he isn't? Seems to me like if anything's setting him back, it's that. Why don't you tell him he's good enough before he beats himself to a pulp? Seems like he's more likely to believe it coming from you, anyway."

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Kurt." His tone was more a statement of his presence than an invitation to elaborate.

"Make sure Carole's sister is frying that chicken in canola or safflower oil. No shortening. And nonfat yogurt is a heart healthy alternative to eggs when preparing the drench."

Burt chuckled. "I... love you, too, kid."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Anytime."

"Except dinner time."

"If at all possible."

"Have a Merry Christmas, Dad."

"Tell me that tomorrow when you call me and tell me how it went. Got it?"

"Got it. Love you."

"Right back atcha."

-#-

Blaine noted, on his way into the kitchen, that he'd been close. He'd been expecting Chinese. They were having Thai. He also noted, to his relief, that the table wasn't set. The take out cartons were all sprawled out on the counter next to a stack of napkins, paper plates, plastic cutlery, clearly meant to be eaten on a 'help yourself whenever you're ready' basis. At least there'd be no awkward small talk at dinner.

"You look handsome, dear. Did Kurt help you with your hair? I can fix a plate for you. What would you like?"

Of course, that wouldn't save him from his mother trying a little too hard. He tried not to look like he was searching for the nearest exit as he scanned the room, ears finally honing in on the unmistakable sound of a football game playing on the television in the family room. It was a fair bet his dad was in there, now, straddling an ottoman with at least two plates of food on it and a paper napkin tucked into the front of his shirt while he watched the game.

He probably hadn't even heard Blaine come down the stairs, so if he could just dodge his mom for the time being, Blaine figured he could take his food back up to his room and wallow in peace.

Aside from the decorations, this Christmas was shaping up to be one of the biggest disappointments in recent holiday history. The universe seemed to be conspiring to make him feel like the most useless, pathetically needy excuse for a potential boyfriend in existence. He had no idea why Kurt would ever want to be saddled with a tragedy in the making like himself. No one needed that, especially not someone with as much potential to rise above it all as Kurt had.

"I got it, Mama." Trying to avoid eye contact, just in case she could tell his eyes were still a little puffy, he balanced a plate on his left hand and spooned a helping of cashew chicken onto it before stuffing half a spring roll into his mouth. He was still chewing and looking over the rest of the choices with only faint interest when his mom pushed a glass of water and his nightly handful of medication across the counter. He met her gaze only long enough to swallow and say, "Thanks."

It had become somewhat of a ritual by then, only tonight he decided to forego the part where he reminded her that he was perfectly capable of doling out his own medicine, and she, thankfully skipped the part where she stood there and pretended not to watch him take it. To his chagrin, he had to set his plate down and alternate the use of his free hand between taking the pills and raising the glass, which made the whole process stretch out longer than usual.

"Did I hear you playing your guitar earlier?" So much for avoiding small talk.

"Mm-hmm," Blaine nodded, taking an extra long time to swallow his last sip of water in hopes she'd consider him too preoccupied to elaborate further.

"You know, you can bring it down here and play. I sort of miss your little impromptu concerts in the family room." She turned her attention to brushing away the crumbs from around the container of spring rolls before Blaine could point out that those were Cooper's concerts in which Blaine was usually forced to participate under extreme duress, (as in Cooper threatened to put wet sheets into the hamper so everyone would think Blaine wet the bed) and what she really meant was that she didn't like him spending so much time up in his room. Alone. They'd had that discussion already.

"I just needed something to do with my hands while Kurt fixed my hair. It was no big deal."

"Is Kurt coming down for dinner?"

Swallowing his last pill, Blaine nodded. "I think he might be taking a nap. I'll let him know it's ready."

"No need." They both turned, a little startled. Kurt always did move a little like a cat. "I thought I smelled Green Curry," Kurt noted, padding across the kitchen in his stocking feet. "I'm the only one who eats it at my house." He shrugged, "Well, I was the only one until I moved in with Rachel. The Thai place we usually order from has a vegan variation that's actually edible. I sometimes 'accidentally' forget to ask for the vegan, though."

"I wasn't really sure what it was," Pam admitted, "but the nice boy who took my order said it was the special for today, so I decided to give it a try." She pushed the soup across the counter. As Kurt had surmised, it was barely touched. "Tommy and I didn't really care for it." She offered him a spoon from the drawer instead of the plastic utensils that were already laid out. "You can just eat it out of the container, if you like." Kurt raised his eyebrows but took it, balancing a spring roll on the edge. "Did you have a nice nap, dear?"

"Actually," Kurt blew on the first spoonful, "I was on the phone with my dad."

"Then I take it they made the drive safely?" Pam asked.

"They did," Kurt nodded. "And they all send their best, though I think he was on the verge of redacting his well wishes in my case, since I apparently kept him talking through dinner."

"Well, that must have been some important phone call," she observed, sliding the stack of paper napkins closer to Kurt, which Blaine recognized as her invitation to put down the spoon and share with the class. He couldn't tell whether or not Kurt was willing to play along, but he had three guesses what Kurt had been discussing with his dad for nearly an hour after storming out of Blaine's room in tears, and the first two didn't count.

So, Burt knew Blaine was a loser and a coward now, too.

Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore. Blaine set his plate down as unobtrusively as possible and turned to leave Kurt and his mom to some girl talk. Before he could sneak away, his mother took him by the shoulder and turned him back to the counter.

"Honey, you can't take your medication without eating something. At least have another spring roll."

Blaine's cheeks burned as he felt Kurt's gaze fix on him. He hated that his mother was right. The new anti-inflammatory protocol he was on messed really messed with his stomach. He missed at least a day of school after he started on it because he hadn't counted on the crippling nausea that stayed with him for almost two full hours after he took the new medicine.

"Actually," Kurt slumped over his bowl of curry and dropped his eyes, probably embarrassed to have to watch his ex be metaphorically spoon fed by his mother, "I have some... gifts to finish wrapping up in my room," he said, obviously grasping. "Would it be extremely rude of me to take this up with me?"

"Of course not," Pam dismissed. "But since you brought it up," she slid an arm around Kurt's shoulders, "I've been meaning to ask you for help with that exact thing."

"Gift wrapping?"

"Yes." She feigned a blush. "I hate to admit it, but I've always been terrible at gift wrapping. That's one of the reasons the Andersons have really always been about the stocking stuffers, if I'm honest. I would be incredibly embarrassed to put anything I wrapped under the tree with all of your immaculate presents. Would it be a huge imposition...?"

"No, no, of course not." Kurt ducked his eyes at Blaine who couldn't tell if he was looking to be rescued or feeling guilty about leaving Blaine standing in the kitchen alone.

If it was the latter, he was rescued, as Blaine's dad chose just that moment to come in. Blaine was surprised to see that, instead of the typical game day attire of an old race t-shirt from one of the 5ks or half marathons he'd run back in the day and a pair of track pants, his dad was till sporting his dress shirt and slacks, though the sleeves were rolled up and his tie undone.

"Blaine!" His dad beckoned. "There you are. I thought I heard you come down." He lowered whatever pamphlet or brochure he'd apparently been studying, reading glasses sliding down his nose, as he gave Blaine the once over. "You had your meds and some dinner?"

Blaine nodded, rolling his eyes. which everyone else probably missed as he'd managed to place himself behind a large copper kettle hanging from the overhead rack. As small as he felt, he was still a little too large to crawl under the island altogether.

Unfazed, his dad nodded in return and said, "Well, good. I've been reading up about this ICD interrogation tracker, and I thought this would be a good time to sit down together and see if we can check it out. I'm actually really curious to see how it's working."

Blaine's eyes widened, slightly taken aback. "Isn't there a game on?"

His father already had his glasses pushed up and the pamphlet in front of him, his chin resting in a thoughtful cradle between his thumb and index finger. "Hmm?" He looked over his glasses. "Oh! Well, it's still on, but I haven't really been watching." He waved Blaine over. "You coming?"

"Y-yeah." He started to follow, then back-stepped as his mother held his plate out for him.

"Mind the crumbs," she said, kissing him on his temple as he walked by before she handed Kurt a T.V. tray. "We'll be in the den. Don't come in without knocking, or Christmas will be ruined."

Blaine couldn't help a slight snigger. He couldn't actually recall a Christmas where he hadn't known exactly what he was getting weeks in advance. Of course, he also couldn't recall a time when his father had willingly forgone a football game to spend time with him.

Blaine met Kurt's eyes for a second and was met with a shrugged apology as they parted company for the second time that evening. He followed his dad into the family room, barely getting a chance to set his plate down on the coffee table before his dad was hovering over him waving something that looked intermediate in size between a computer mouse and a television remote. He recognized it to be the wand that read his ICD and reported the information back to his phone.

The way Blaine understood it, eventually the data would all automatically upload to his doctor's office where it would be interpreted, and then he'd get a phone call if anything seemed out of the ordinary. In its beta phase, it didn't automatically upload to the doctor, since they weren't set up to have someone trained monitoring the incoming information at all hours of the day. All the relevant information went to his phone, though, and he could track the information himself, and if he was concerned, he could send it to his doctor manually. Since he really didn't have a whole lot of idea how to interpret the data, there were some preset parameters in the app that prompted him when something was out of the ordinary, and told him if he needed to send it to his doctor, or in an emergency, call 911. The version he was testing would even auto dial 911 in an emergency if he didn't respond to the prompt.

His dad showed him the buttons on the wand, which he vaguely remembered someone at the hospital explaining to him, and then held it over the incision site under Blaine's collarbone, pulling it back a fraction of an inch when Blaine hissed at the pressure. "Sorry," Thomas apologized. "I'm not sure if it actually has to touch the device or..." The wand beeped in his hand, and he checked the display. "I guess it got the data." He pointed to another button on the wand, "So, I press this, and it should start uploading to your phone... Yup, there it goes." He looked around like he'd misplaced something. "Oh, wait a second. Where's your phone? I think you need to have the app open for it to work."

Shifting on the couch to free up his back pocket, Blaine pulled out the phone and swiped over the new icon on his main screen. It was sort of like the camera, in that it would open the app when the phone was otherwise locked, so a friend or Samaritan who happened to be around could use it in an emergency. Blaine made sure it was running, then said, "Okay, try now." His dad re-sent the information, and sure enough, it showed up on his phone a few seconds later as a series of graphs with some highlighted bullet points to help him interpret them. "It says, three incidences of NSVT," he read. "Those are the really short ones, right?"

His dad nodded, "Hence the term, Non-Sustained Ventricular Tachycardia."

Blaine frowned. "Is that good?"

Thomas studied Blaine's phone over the top of his reading glasses and shrugged. "We don't really have a baseline established, yet. After we upload more data points, we'll be able to get a clearer idea as to what's normal for you. We can also adjust the parameters as far as what we want to call NSVT and what we want to ignore as normal artifacts in the measurement. I think the technician said it was set up to recognize three premature ventricular complexes in a row as the minimum number to establish a tachycardia and any more than that is considered non-sustained as long as they stop within 30 seconds. That's pretty much the standard definition. We might find out that your 'normal' NSVT actually run a little longer than 30 seconds if you get a number of alarms for sustained events that don't last longer than, say, 40 seconds, and so we may elect to change the parameters to avoid spamming your doctor with the same alarms every day." He squinted at the phone again. "Looks like the ones we recorded today were only 15 seconds or so, though, so that's probably not something we'll have to worry about."

"So, the ICD doesn't do anything when I have an NSVT, right?"

"It shouldn't. It will just detect the extra heartbeat and monitor it to make sure it doesn't become a sustained event, in which case, it should attempt to interrupt the impulses causing it by giving a low voltage discharge that you, in theory, won't even feel." His dad's explanation pretty much parroted exactly what the cardiologist had told him the day before.

"Yeah, it's that 'in theory' part that has me worried," Blaine confessed. "How do they know it's low enough that I won't feel it?"

"Well, some people might feel a tingle or a tickle based on how close the device is to surrounding nerves or how sensitive the person is, and they might have it set to a slightly higher voltage at first to make sure it's detectable when they do their initial testing of the device, but at any rate, it wouldn't feel like more than a small static charge."

Blaine set his jaw, skeptical of anything that was supposed to be painless after countless times being fooled by excruciating pain that was supposed to be 'only a little pressure.' His dad must've picked up on his skepticism and patted his knee in reassurance. "Believe me, Blaine," he said, "even if you feel it, you'll be glad to know it's working. It's that little tingle that keeps you from getting a full blown shock."

"Which only happens if my heart rate gets too slow, right?" He picked up his plastic cutlery and used it to push the rice away from his chicken and vegetables, wary of the extra carbs now that he couldn't work off the calories.

"Yes and no," his dad nodded. "If you have sustained tachycardia that goes on for an extended period of time, it will deploy a larger shock in an attempt to restore the normal rhythm. In the event that the arrhythmia progresses to the point that the heart is no longer moving blood, then it will deliver a defibrillating shock just like the ones you see doctors use on television with the paddles."

Blaine didn't like the sound of either of those scenarios. That was the reason he'd been so hesitant to get the device in the first place. "How often does that happen?" he queried.

"Hopefully not very often, or at all," Thomas answered. "If the low energy pacing therapy works, then never. We'll just have to wait and see how your arrhythmias respond. You haven't had any sustained tachycardia since the device was implanted, so we have no data yet on how you'll respond."

Blaine couldn't help but swallow hard, reminded once more that the bomb in his chest was constantly ticking, and it was anyone's guess when the timer was set to go off. "What would I do, you know, if..."

"If you're aware that you've experienced a shock, then you interrogate your ICD to see if the arrhythmia has been corrected and immediately send that information to your doctor. If you experience more than one, and the rhythm doesn't convert to normal, you call 911." His dad set the phone down and looked him in the eye. "Whatever you do, do not attempt to drive yourself to the hospital. Not only is it dangerous, but it's illegal. No matter how you think you feel or if you're reading a normal rhythm, you cannot drive after an ICD shock. Am I clear?"

Blaine knew that. He did. The doctor and the technician had both explained as much to him before the surgery and made him sign paperwork acknowledging that it had been explained. While he knew his dad was just being overprotective and, well, parental, Blaine didn't appreciate being reminded of yet another restriction he had to live with. And the interaction, the attention, actually being asked for his input and expected to answer? That all still felt a little fake to him, forced. His parents looked the same, but he couldn't help but feel like they were on the verge of molting, and underneath this skin they were either the parents he wanted and needed or just shadows that would slink away under the door once they shed their constraining parent suits. He didn't want to believe they were real if they were going to vanish again once they tired of playing house.

Still, bracing for what seemed like the inevitable moment of disappointment was exhausting. Fighting down the part of him that wanted to give over some of the control and responsibility while hating that he really wanted to throw it back in their faces where it belonged in the first place, made him want nothing more than to crawl into his bed and stay there until the world figured out what it was going to do.

Instead, he just nodded.

"No driving. I got it." He couldn't help but sound bitter even if he never would've considered driving under those circumstances, anyway.

His dad must've picked up on the tone, because he sat back and systematically stripped himself of all the pretenses—the phone, the wand, even his reading glasses removed and set on the end table with a long sigh—before leaning back against the arm of the couch, hands splayed over his knees. He tipped forward and back a few times as if he couldn't decide if this was supposed to be done sitting or standing, reaching out or respectfully distant, finally settled on hips pressed back against the couch and torso leaned forward over elbows that he braced on his thighs, hands folded together.

"Blaine... this may come as a surprise to you, but I don't know what I'm doing here." He gesticulated toward the literature scattered across the coffee table without unfolding his hands to do so. "I'm a doctor. I'm good at the clinical stuff, the physical stuff. I understand... all of this, and while we did need to have this conversation, eventually, I think right now it's really just my way of saying, I don't know what to say."

Blaine chanced a glance up from where he'd been studying the tops of his arms where they were folded across his chest. "Say about what?"

"About... how proud I am that you decided to take this step, how… sorry I am that I'm leaving again in less than two weeks and you'll have to figure most of this out on your own, and..." he took a long, shuddering breath and let it out, "Blaine… we need to talk about Kurt."

-#-

"So, I'm guessing by the awkward silence between you two, that you and my son didn't just spend the last couple of hours kissing and making up." Pam dropped tape and a package of gift tags onto the carpet beside him, punctuation to denote she wasn't asking a question but was somewhat disappointed in the conclusion she'd reached on her own.

Kurt bit his lip, trying to keep his attention on the gold paper rolled out in front of him as he sat cross-legged on the floor, scissors in hand and T.V. tray of green curry beside and slightly behind him on the floor. "I'm afraid not," he sighed. "I'm beginning to think the timing just isn't right, yet."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "It's Christmas. What better time is there? The Hallmark channel has been showing nothing except holiday romance movies since Halloween. I was sure that's why Blaine wanted you to visit over break."

Kurt shrugged, maneuvering a white garment box into the center of his paper. "I did, too," he admitted. "I was so sure. I think I scripted a hundred different scenarios for how he was going to tell me he was ready to give us another go. From writing it in frost on a car window, which he knows would freak out my inner car detailer, to having the Glee club pose as Christmas carolers and serenade us." He raised his brow, askance. "In none of those fantasy scenarios did we sit down to spaghetti with my family and find out he was having surgery."

He fixed a piece of tape over the seam of paper and paused as his disappointment tickled over something else that hadn't occurred to him. "Wait," he said, twisting to face Pamela from his awkward position on the floor. "You thought Blaine asked me here so the two of us could get back together again, as boyfriends, and you were okay with that? Cooper said..." he shook his head, choosing different words, "I got the impression that you..."

"That I didn't think your relationship was good for Blaine." Not a question. Cooper hadn't been wrong, then, not in his normal overly dramatic, slightly skewed version of reality way, or any other way. She paused in curling the ribbons and dropped them into her lap. "Kurt, you should know by now that I adore you. I can't believe how lucky Blaine was to find you, and I can't tell you how proud I am to know you."

"But..." Kurt offered.

"But," she sighed, "he was so taken with you. It was like you were the only person in the world, the only opinion that mattered, and all of his energy went into making you happy and making you proud. I'd seen that before with him."

"With his dad," Kurt supplied, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin between them. "Cooper suggested the same thing."

She nodded, a sad turn to her lips, her gaze fixed and distant. "You know, I was the one who found him? In the garage, after his 'accident?'" Her fingers curled into the ribbon and twirled it around tight enough to cut off the circulation. "I never got home that early. I cancelled three important clients that day so I could leave ahead of schedule. I was going to make him dinner and try to sit down and talk with him. I just... I knew he wasn't okay. He'd put so much on himself trying to catch up with his class even though he hadn't even fully recovered from the attack. And when Tommy left..."

Kurt wanted to ask, but he didn't. He knew the Anderson's were working that out in therapy, and it wasn't his business.

Pam must've sensed his curiosity, and maybe he wasn't entirely successful at keeping the accusation out of his expression. She lifted her chin abruptly and looked Kurt in the eye. "That had nothing to do with Blaine. Not really," she explained, "Tommy… he'd already completed the application and screening process. It was always something he planned to do, for his own personal reasons. It was a good cause, and we supported that. He'd planned to wait until after both boys were graduated before he actually went. But after Blaine got hurt, Tommy and I..." she shrugged, "Things got really tense between us. We were constantly fighting..."

"About Blaine," Kurt guessed.

"Yes." Her mouth tightened into a line. "But not _because_ of him. That's something we've been working through, and I think Blaine understands now, but back then... We both blamed each other, I think, for Blaine getting hurt, and we disagreed on how to help him. The only thing we did agree on was that he didn't need to hear us constantly bickering and sniping at each other when he was already dealing with so much."

"One day, we were just really tearing into each other. I thought Blaine was putting too much pressure on himself and needed more time off school. Tommy thought the schoolwork was a good distraction, and that he needed to get right back on the horse, so to speak. Our voices raised to the point we were almost shouting, and we thought we'd closed that door."

Her chin dropped again... "The look on Blaine's face when he walked in... It was just... Anyway, it was obvious that we weren't as good at keeping private matters private as we thought we were, and Blaine was getting caught in the crossfire. We decided it would be best if Tommy just went ahead on his mission, so I could focus on Blaine, and Blaine could focus on putting his life together again without having to worry about it falling apart behind closed doors. It might not have been the best decision, and looking back, the timing probably couldn't have been worse, because all it did was convince Blaine that his father was running away from _him_."

She paused, letting the statement hang in the air, both of them looking back with their 20/20 hindsight, knowing the depth of the self-doubt and anxiety Blaine had confessed since, and realizing exactly how wrong that decision had been.

Pam took a deep breath and shrugged. "Anyway, that day I just _knew_ Blaine wasn't okay. He'd been withdrawn and defeated since finding out he'd have to repeat his freshman year after all the hours he'd spent trying to catch up to the curriculum. We hadn't really had the chance to talk about how he felt about his dad leaving, but I could tell he had no idea what to do with himself anymore. It was like, his entire opinion of who he was hinged on whether or not he was making his dad proud of him. Without that barometer, that constant feedback, he was just drifting."

"That day, I thought if I could just get him to sit down and talk with me, I could explain how proud we both were of him and how much we just wanted for him to be happy; we could work it all out." She dropped her gaze to her lap once more. "Well, you know how that turned out. After that, he went into therapy, and I guess I figured he was working on himself there, and when he was ready to talk with me, he would. He joined the Warblers and really seemed to turn the corner, so I guess we never really had that conversation ourselves. It wasn't until he met you, and then... transferred schools to be with you. He seemed so happy, I didn't want to admit that I saw some of the same patterns developing. Then, he got hurt again and they discovered his heart condition. He already had so much going on that I never mentioned my misgivings about your relationship."

"Except to Cooper," Kurt corrected.

She nodded. "Actually, it was Cooper who brought it up after he visited last year and saw the two of you together. When he had the same concerns as I did, that cemented things for me, I guess. I know you probably didn't see it, Kurt. You wouldn't have. He was happy with you. That was the problem."

"Because I was leaving."

By then, she was curling the ribbon again, abandoning the butter knife in favor of using just her long, manicured fingernails. "And you were his whole world, the same way his father used to be. You two were just so intense. It scared us… a lot." After a long beat, she dropped the ribbon once more and looked up, a bright smile fixed purposefully over her features. "But that was then, Kurt. He's so much better now. He's working so hard. He knows his patterns and how to change them. He takes his medication and goes to therapy. And you saw what he's doing with the glee club." There was no mistaking the pride beaming in her eyes.

"He's amazing," Kurt reciprocated. "And you should hear my dad talk about him, definitely not the kind of reception I expected for my first boyfriend."

"He talks about your dad all the time, too." She smiled broader for a second before letting it drop. "I just... it's like..." She took a minute to form her thoughts. Kurt studied the fabric of his pants, not wanting to pressure her but unwilling to let the conversation drop entirely. "I think he's gotten so good at taking a step back and examining every situation that he's forgotten how to live in the moment. He used to be so spontaneous and willing to take chances, and now he's just so... subdued."

"Scared," Kurt added.

She sighed with a nod. "He's gotten so good at treating his illness that he's becoming the illness. He's finally learned to determine what he needs and to ask for it, but he'll never ask for anything just because he wants it, like anything that makes him happy is probably a symptom or part of a pattern he's supposed to break, something he's not allowed to have. I think he's decided that being a responsible adult is only about making sacrifices and hard choices." She leaned down, then, her hand resting on Kurt's shoulder. "And that's the thing, Kurt. I know he wants to be with you. I know he's ready. His dad thinks he's ready. His therapist thinks he's more than ready."

"But he's afraid."

"And he thinks he's protecting you from all of this. I know you think you know how hard it's been here while you've been away, but you only know what he tells you, not because he wants to keep secrets, but because he doesn't want you to worry."

"But I worry, anyway," Kurt argued. "I don't think I ever _stop_ worrying. And even when he doesn't say something, I can hear in his voice when he's really struggling."

"I know you do, dear. You two have such a connection. He just, doesn't want to seem too... dependent."

"I think his words were needy and pathetic," Kurt supplied, citing one of the few times Blaine had admitted his insecurities out loud.

A lot came out in that week between Blaine's two hospital stays that summer. Those were dark times and yet led to some of the greatest affirmations for Kurt, when he was finally allowed to see the Blaine that hid behind the performer and realized he loved that flawed, broken Blaine even more. "But that's part of what a relationship is," he continued. "I need him, too. I need his reassurance when I feel overwhelmed and his objectivity when I'm too emotional to see a solution and his touch to remind me I'm special when I start to feel like a stereotype with nothing to offer."

"I needed that here where I stuck out like a sore thumb and drew the wrong kind of attention and even more in New York where there's three of me at every audition, and I have to fight to stand out. I need him to know that knowing him and loving him is the reason I not only want to be better but actually believe I am."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm happy with who I am, and even when things are tough, I feel pretty good about the choices I make, or at least confident that the decisions I make in any of those situations are true to who I am. Most of the time I feel really good about where I've come from and where I'm going." He broke off, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as remembered just how far he'd come already, and how he'd gotten there. "But no matter how good things are or how good I feel, Blaine makes it better. He makes me better."

Pam's hand slid from his shoulder to his elbow as she leaned in closer, locking her eyes on his. "Tell him, Kurt. I know you're trying to give him his space and independence, but he's ready to hear it. He'll deny himself, but he'll never deny you."

Kurt laughed at that, an ironic rumble from deep in his chest that rasped out more through his nose than his mouth, resonating.

Pam was taken aback. "I'm sorry. What's so funny?"

Kurt pushed both his hands back over his hair hard enough to lift his forehead and his eyebrows along with it, locked his fingers together at the crown of his head and just laughed again. Blaine was right. He really was making this so much harder than it had to be. "It's... nothing," Kurt dismissed. "Just, you're the second person to tell me that, today. I think maybe I should just shut up and listen more often."

She sat back, her expression slightly stern as she lifted her eyebrows, chin pinched against her lower lip, "Or you can speak up and _tell him_ ," she reiterated. Her pinched lips twisted in a smirk, seemingly unbidden. "Don't make me stoop to Cooper's level."

Not sure whether he was meant to be intrigued or put off, Kurt quirked an eyebrow. "Dare I ask?"

Pam shook her head with a quiet, huffing laugh as she reached behind the desk and produced a cardboard box. "When he heard you coming for Christmas, Cooper sent us this." It had obviously been opened, the tape sliced right across the shipping label and the flaps crisscrossed together to close it back up. She handed it to Kurt who only briefly sought permission by waiting for her to nod before opening it. Receiving it, he pulled the flaps apart, not sure what to expect but preparing for the worst possible embarrassment. Blaine's over-dramatic brother seemed incapable of doing anything if not in jest. The distinctive scent of evergreen hit his nostrils a nanosecond before he caught his first glimpse of green polka dotted with white.

He facepalmed, his own laugh nearly identical to hers before he asked, "Is this what I think it is?"

She shrugged. "If you think it's five pounds of mistletoe, then yes."

Kurt laughed out loud, then, rocking back with the box balanced over his crossed legs. "Oh my gosh. Only Cooper." Then, shaking his head, he added. "Actually, this is much tamer than I would've expected from him." He didn't mention the urge he'd had to check the return address to make it sure it hadn't come from some less-than-discreetly named adult gift shop.

She must've caught onto his implication, though, and laugh-sighed from the back of her throat with a sadly amused smile. "It probably would've been much worse, except with Blaine just having surgery, he kind of figured all you'd be doing was kissing and making up."

"A _lot_ , apparently," Kurt squeaked, a deep blush burning up is cheekbones and down the back of his neck.

Pam nudged the box with the pointed toe of her kitten heeled shoe. "Not to worry, though, dear. He'll be fully recovered by Valentine's day."

That's when Kurt knocked over the curry.

-#-

Blaine lost his breath, momentarily, having forgotten to breathe, like it had stopped being automatic and just one more thing that he needed to ponder and agonize over from one moment to the next, in order to get right. Swallowing hard seemed to trigger that part of his sympathetic nervous system that forced his lungs to expand, and he managed a half a breath before choking out a single syllable in response. "Kurt?"

"Mhmm." His dad nodded, obviously uncomfortable, his gaze fixed on his fingers where they dangled from hands, an occasional twitch belying the nerves beneath. "He and I had a lot of opportunity to talk in the last couple of days."

"About me," Blaine grumbled, arms tightening around himself.

"Well, to be fair, son, what _else_ would we talk about? I mean, other than his dad's work in Congress, which I think is relevant to us all, you're pretty much the only thing we have in common. That and, I get the impression you and he haven't really spent much time talking about me, so he had a lot of questions. I think he'd made a lot of assumptions that weren't entirely true, but I understand why he did, given some of the miscommunications you and I have had and are still working through."

Blaine shifted uneasily, his eyes darting between the arms folded across his chest and the side of his dad's downturned face. "And?"

"And I like him a lot, Blaine. He's..." Thomas shrugged, "a little out there, maybe, but he comes by it honestly. I can see that he's being himself and doesn't let anyone dictate who that should be or what it should look or act like. I appreciate that."

Blaine sank back into the cushions. He'd thought he was past caring whether or not his parents approved of Kurt, but his father's words allayed a thrum of tension he'd been subconsciously harboring, reminding him that no matter how grown or enlightened he became, he still needed his dad's approval. It was nice, this once, to have it given without Blaine feeling the need to jump through any hoops to get it.

His dad glanced over his shoulder to where Blaine was hunkered into the couch. "Does that help?"

Blaine met his eyes then deflected by pretending to check out the score on the muted television. Since he wasn't sure what exactly his father was getting at or whether he really wanted to know, he answered with a noncommittal, "Hmm?" as though he hadn't actually heard the question in the first place.

"Does me telling you that I like Kurt make it any easier for you to tell him what you brought him here to say?"

Blaine disguised his surprised cough as a thoughtful clearing of his throat, but his voice, when it squeaked out, gave him away. "A-and what would..." He cleared his throat a second time, swallowing around the choke so his voice could return to its normal octave. "What did you think I brought him here to say?"

Thomas turned at the hip to face him, rubbing his hands over his thighs where they spanned the cushion between them. "Blaine, I have listened to you stammer over the words 'just friends' ever since I came back from Syria, and while I am... tickled beyond words that you have a great _friend_ like Kurt, I cannot ever remember spending hours on the phone talking with my best friend. Nor can I recall ever having a friend that I could not go a day without talking to, or that would spend an entire day of his vacation dragging boxes out of my attic to give me a perfect Christmas."

"Dad, we're..."

"On a break," Thomas supplied. "I know. I've heard it. Because you needed to work on yourself. I get that. I also get that Kurt respects that, and that he's working on himself as well. You're works in progress." He took a deep breath, gaze turning inward for a moment before clapping his hands on his legs and squaring up his shoulders. "And while that's all admirable and most likely needed to happen, I think you're so focused on the work that you're blind to the progress. Either that, or you've gotten so fixated on the idea of becoming independent that you're afraid re-establishing a relationship would reverse that progress."

Blaine entertained the idea of not responding at all, but his dad's insight was just enough to the left of the truth that he couldn't help the rebuttal that bubbled out. "It's just really hard to feel like I'm making progress when everything that's happened since Kurt came back to Lima makes me feel like a helpless little kid. First, there's the surgery, and then, I'm a total lightweight when it comes to anesthesia, so I spend an entire day loopy and stupid, so everyone's got to take care of me, and when I get home, I can't even do my own hair or shower without someone telling me what to do or doing it for me. Why would Kurt even want to be with me?"

"Blaine, all of that is circumstantial. You can't help how your body reacts to anesthesia, and I'm pretty sure Kurt finds it adorable, anyway. You'll be out of the sling in a couple of days, and the ICD will give you the independence to know what's going on without having to guess. This is just a rough patch resulting from..."

"Circumstances, just like you said," Blaine interrupted. "Circumstances that aren't going away. Nothing about my condition, mental or physical, is static. Something is always going to come up that makes me needy and pathetic all over again, and Kurt doesn't deserve that."

"But don't you think that's his choice to make?" Thomas asked. "We all face uncertainty. Kurt could have fallen off a ladder decorating that tree and spent the next several weeks in a cast. Would that have made him needy and pathetic?"

"Of course not." Blaine admitted.

"And would you have been bothered if he needed you to help him?"

"No. No, I'd have insisted. No one else could take care of him the way I c..."

"And after he's spent all these months learning how to be there for you by giving you space to grow, do you honestly think Kurt would begrudge you needing the help? If people were meant to exist as entirely independent creatures, we wouldn't even bother with things like marriage and family and home. We'd all just float around, completely unaware of everything we were missing out on."

Blaine blinked. Hard. And rolled his eyes, because he was not going to cry. He was not... God, he was crying. He tried to discreetly wipe at the corner of his eye with a thumb by barely lifting the rest of his arm from where it was folded over the sling. "I get that," he finally admitted. "I'm just..." His throat closed before he could say anything truly embarrassing.

"Scared," his dad finished. "We all are. But you're the bravest b... young _man_ I have ever met. You've never stepped down from a fight in your life, Blaine, and every fight does not have to be about some greater good or a grand cause that you've decided to lead the charge on. Sometimes you have to fight for what you love."

"Even if someone ends up getting hurt?"

"Because hurt is going to find us one way or another, regardless of how careful we are, and we deserve to have some happiness in our lives while it's right there in front of us."

Blaine sniffled. He couldn't believe his dad was actually giving him advice about his love life. Considering how things were going between his parents, at the moment, he was a little surprised to find his dad was apparently a romantic at heart.

Thomas clapped him on the shoulder, shaking it lightly until Blaine looked him in the eye. "I get it. You're sick. You're tired. You're lonely. You're scared. But you're also strong and brave and so, so lucky. Go, be lucky. Son, the only thing worth doing is going toward love. Don't waste time double guessing, and don't waste time behaving yourself. You gotta run; you gotta jump." He leaned slightly forward, the stance of a confidant, "Okay, don't run or jump. Doctor's orders. But don't be afraid to make mistakes, and don't be afraid to love when it's waiting right in front of you. Cuz it won't stick around forever. You gotta grab it, and whatever you do, don't let go.(1)"

There was nothing to be done at that point, to disguise the tears as Blaine surged into his father's arms and let them fall against his shirt.

"Okay?" Thomas asked.

Blaine nodded into his neck to indicate he understood. Whether he was able to heed the advice or not sort of hinged on whether he ever managed to stop crying.

"Just let it out.

Blaine did.

-TBC

 **(1)** I know Walter made this speech to Kurt, but as much as I liked Walter, the whole relationship with Kurt skeeved me out a little. Anyway, in this universe, that is not going to happen, but this lovely sentiment still needed to be said.

 **AN:** I'm sorry if you thought the boys would finally get their act together in this chapter. As difficult as writing the breakup was, getting them back together proved to be much more difficult for me. Hopefully, you all enjoyed spending some time with the elusive parents.


	18. The Poles

**AN:** Well, here's your reward for sticking with the story despite the day before Christmas Even apparently being the longest day in Glee history. I feel like, if this were a novel for publication, this would actually be the starting point of the story, and the rest would be backstory that would maybe someday be published as one-offs in the same universe. That being said, I wanted to follow the Glee timeline to make it a more realistic depiction of what it's like to actually live with these conditions. This chapter jump starts, I hope, the snowball roll towards the end. I would really love to hear from you all to know if you're still hanging in there and enjoying the story.

 **Warnings/Triggers:** This chapter contains slight cursing, second hand panic, possible(implied) suicidal ideation, and bipolar rage. Read at your own risk.

Kurt heard Blaine pass by the den while he and Pam were still on their hands and knees trying to get the green curry stain out of the rug. Even though she looked at him pointedly and attempted to shoo him toward the door, he took his time spraying and dabbing while he worked up the courage to go talk to him. And a plan, because honestly, he had no idea what to say. There was just so much, and he was about talked out. Maybe it would be more impactful if he waited until Christmas, or at least Christmas Eve. One day to prepare the perfect words to make sure Blaine knew that Kurt needed him and didn't mind being needed in return. Where did words like that even come from?

Maybe there was an app for that.

There should be. An app for that.

"Kurt," Pam broke him out of his thoughts with a gentle nudge to the shoulder. "Stain's gone," she said. "Now, you too. Be gone. Shoo!"

This time there was no dodging her suggestion, so he excused himself and left her with the rest of the gifts to wrap. (Which, it turned out, she really wasn't all that inept at to begin with.) He decided he'd at least tell Blaine good night and see if the opportunity to say more presented itself. If not, well, he'd have hours alone in his bed to figure it out between now and his return to New York.

He paused at Blaine's bedroom door, about to knock when he heard the familiar strum of Blaine's guitar on the other side. He didn't recognize the song and pressed his ear closer as Blaine picked up the melody with his voice.

( **Drink In My Hand, The Classic Crime** )

 _When I picked up you broke into tears_  
 _You said you weren't busy enough_  
 _I still don't know why you need me_  
 _And my broken down love_

Kurt's heart clenched. There it was again. That doubt and self-deprecation, as if Blaine had been listening in on the conversation with Pam.

 _With each second that ticks your voice rings in my ears_  
 _And memories flood back from all of our years_  
 _And I tell you it's okay, there's nothing to fear_  
 _And I secretly hope I am righ_ t

Courage. Hadn't that always been his mantra? Or at least, hadn't it been his mantra since Blaine had given it to him? And hadn't Blaine stood beside him when his courage alone wasn't enough?

 _And I, I am almost nowhere_  
 _And I'm getting there fast_  
 _But you, you're the hope in my cold stare_  
 _You're the drink in my hand_

Inside the room, the guitar picked up an energy, a heartfelt thrum that rattled Kurt through the door. Kurt could be that for Blaine. Couldn't he?

 _'Cause you're what I dream of when I awake alone_  
 _As I drift away, as we talk on the phone_  
 _You're all I want and that's all that I know_  
 _And I still just can't wait to get home_

He knocked abruptly and entered without being invited, the voice in his head reassuring him that he could be that for Blaine. He could do that for Blaine, that they could be home together. Instead, he just stood there on the threshold, breathing heavily as though he'd just run across the county to get there while Blaine set his guitar down at the side of his bed from where he was propped against his pillows to play, sling empty and useless across his chest. One glimpse of Blaine's red-rimmed eyes and Kurt lost every ounce of resolve along with the few coherent thoughts that he'd glommed onto before turning the knob.

"Kurt? Is everything okay?"

"N-no, no. Everything is not okay. Not yet. I-I..." Kurt closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "Blaine, I..." and exhaled, "Sing with me?"

Blaine looked a little self-conscious, glancing down at his guitar, like he'd been caught in an act much more lewd than just the baring of his soul. "Sure, Kurt. Always. I didn't know you knew the song."

Kurt shook his head, teeth grabbing the inside of his bottom lip. "Not _that_ song." The part of his brain that stored random song lyrics worked frantically to help Kurt figure out where he was going with this. He'd suggested a song, because it seemed like the hardest words came out a lot easier when someone else had already taken the time to put them to music, but he didn't have a particular one in mind, and no matter how he scraped at the coffers, he couldn't come up with anything that fit the bill. Not a hundred percent, anyway. He shook his head, exasperated. "Can we just… Can we just talk, please? I-I know that sometimes it's easier for you to sing, but..."

Blaine's expression darkened, and he looked down at the comforter, but he nodded. "I-I'm sorry. I know I've been leaning on that crutch a little hard. I didn't mean…"

"No. N-no, no, Blaine," Kurt knelt one knee on the end of the bed, then pulled himself up, curling onto one hip as he grasped one ankle and pulled it across the other. "Honey, I don't mind. Not at all. You just… do what you have to do, and that's okay. More than okay, but I-I can't do this with any buffer between us. I need it to be just us, just you and me."

Blaine's head drooped, and he levered himself onto his knees so he could reach over and take Kurt's hand from atop his crossed ankles, holding it between both of his own. "Kurt… of course. Anything. I-I don't want anything between us either. And I've never needed one, not with you."

Something about the conversation sparked a momentary bout of déjà vu, and they were back again under that firefly tree all those months ago. The moment had started with a song, too, and now they were approaching the closing of the circle. Kurt closed his eyes and took a cleansing breath, imagining the rain that had started to fall that night, the way the air had clung to them, thick with ozone and gunpowder as the last of the fireworks streaked overhead.

Closing his fingers around Blaine's he raised onto his knees and turned so they were knelt in front of each other, hands clasped together as much for intimacy as to tether, swaying unsteadily on the dipping mattress.

"Blaine, I… When you invited me here for Christmas and said that you had to talk to me about something, I-I thought that you, that you wanted t-to…"

"I do." Blaine's hands slid up to Kurt's elbows, pulling Kurt's hands to his waist as he tipped forward, forehead to forehead, "I do want to." Lips grazed and breath mingled, butterfly kisses on Eskimo noses, close enough to feel the molecules trading between them.

"So do I." Once his chin tilted down, just so, and Blaine's lips parted, magnetic, the words were lost, half swallowed, partially whispered, and mostly in earnest, breaths like a song accompanied by the rasping scrape of Blaine's stubble against Kurt's palms and breathy moans, out of rhythm and off key.

When Kurt did pick up the trailing thread of his thought, it was more of a chant, long vowel sounds whispered and bitten off by half-formed consonants, the whole thing an exaggerated diphthong of unknown dialect.

"Love you. Love you so much. Just wanna be…"

Blaine shushed him, a hand cupping Kurt's ear, fingers twining in the hair behind it, and noses slotted together as they panted into each other's parted mouths.

Then, as if the kiss had been some intricately produced choreography, they breathed a final downbeat and parted, each sitting back on their haunches, still close enough for their eyes to cross but no longer holding each other up as they caught their breaths. In. Out. In. Out. In...

"Blaine." "Kurt." They spoke simultaneously, as if on the count of three, the final exhale a beckoning.

" **Can we please just be boyfriends again**?" It was as if they'd each found a teleprompter in the other's eyes and read the same script, a desperate plea that answered itself in its synchronization.

They fell apart.

"Yes?"

"Yes!"

"Oh my G..."

"Thank Gaga!"

Ragged breaths punctuated in short syllables, a relieved sigh traded back and forth between them.

Then they fell together.

Desperate, slow, heated, treasured, tantric and languid, just lips and hands above the waist, stockinged feet and curled toes below.

They stayed that way 'til morning.

-#-

Cooper's box of mistletoe didn't go to waste. Blaine wasn't much help actually hanging it, but he did his part by making himself available to test out every sprig as he pulled it out of the convenient pocket of his sling while keeping one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. He'd have to thank Cooper later for making it, if not the best, at least the most memorable Christmas Eve on the books. By the time the knock came on the door at nearly nine that night, he and Kurt were both too giddy from basking in the glow of having the barriers down between them that they didn't care anymore who saw them. They were even able to overlook Blaine's parents giving the holiday tradition a go. Well, at least until the tongues made an appearance followed closely by the wandering hands. Because NO!

As it was, Blaine had a lot on his mind, and his lips, so much so that he really had no idea who'd be knocking at that hour right up until he turned the knob. The door was only half open when the first strains of Sarah McLachlan's "Wintersong" reminded him with a start.

"Oh my gosh!"

How could he have forgotten, the Glee Club Christmas caroling party he'd had a shouting match with his parents over just two days ago? They wouldn't let him go, afraid he'd slip on someone's un-shoveled walk and re-open his incision. He should've known Mr. Schue and the rest of the club would bring the party to him—Mr. Schue, the Glee club, and all of his friends from the Cheerios along with Sue and Becky by the looks of it. He stood for a second, mouth agape wondering what exactly could've coaxed all these 'frenemies' to gather at this hour in the freezing cold when he was sure they all had families waiting for them at home. And they were singing the song he'd suggested.

"Oh, wait, wait, wait!" He shushed them all in their adorable caps and scarves by throwing open the front door and beckoning them inside. "You can't do Sarah without piano! Come in, come in! Leave your boots at the door, and follow me." He couldn't stop grinning as they piled in, trading handshakes and hugs as they unlaced their boots and shook out frozen fingers. "We have hot chocolate! And a piano!"

"Mr. Schuester!" Kurt threw open his arms and clapped his old teacher into a hug.

"Kurt! Good to see you. You look really good."

"Well, I am," Kurt grinned, draping an arm around Blaine's waist. " _Really_ good."

Blaine leaned in to accept a hug from Ms. Pillsbury as well, surprised she was open to the gesture. "Miiiisss Pillsbury?" he greeted, slightly taken aback.

"It's Emma," she corrected, then whispered in his ear, "Hot buttered rum. Delicious and medicinal."

"You're not going to throw up on my shoes, are you?" Kurt teased, pulling Blaine back against him.

"No, but I think I'll have to pass on the hot cocoa." She shook her head, eyes falling shut with a grimace as she apparently imagined the combination of sugary cocoa and buttered rum in her stomach.

"We also have plenty of cheese and crackers," Kurt offered.

"Crackers, yes please," she grinned thankfully. "Blaine," she said, stepping back as though she needed a wider perspective, "So glad to see you up and around. We heard you had surgery."

"I did," Blaine nodded. "Minor, minor surgery. Nothing really."

"Which, of course, he would say even if they removed an organ." Blaine didn't know his parents had entered the foyer until his father spoke and then reached over his shoulder to shake hands. "Miss Pillsbury, we've met. Mr. Schuester. Ms. Syl..."

"Sue," she corrected, pushing past the rest to extend her hand. "Call me Sue."

"Welcome," his mom greeted. " Merry Christmas Eve."

"Merry Christmas Eve," the rest of the group uttered in a ripple as the last of the boots were shed and final hugs traded. Kitty, Unique, Jake, Marley, and Ryder huddled awkwardly around Artie's chair as the newbies, probably overwhelmed.

Taking the initiative to bridge the generation gap, Blaine extricated himself from Kurt's embrace far enough to step between the two groups. "Um, everybody, this is my mom and dad. Welcome to our house." Then, turning, "Mom and Dad this is everyone, the Glee club, and my friend from the Cheerios," he added, waving at everyone he hadn't yet had a chance to hug, and then his smile quirked in confusion, "And is this Trent?" he asked, holding out his one arm for a hug from his old Warbler friend who wasted no time accepting the invitation. "Hey! What are you doing here? Not that you're not welcome, but..."

Trent grinned. "Actually, I just live a few blocks away. I heard caroling and couldn't resist. They were all gracious enough to let me tag along when I heard they were heading this way." He shrugged, "Besides, it's not that big of a stretch. I actually went to McKinley for part of my freshman year before my dad got that big promotion and sent me to Dalton. It was ages ago. David Karofsky was still on the hockey team, it was so long ago. My little sister still goes there, in fact." Then, with a joking grasp and shake of Blaine's shoulder he added, "And now that the Warblers are out of the running, I might just have to pull a Kurt and transfer back so I can get a chance to perform at Nationals before I graduate."

Right then, a glossy towhead pushed its way between them, breaking up the reunion. "Hey, Gay Blaine," Becky grinned, "Introduce me to your cute friend." She batted her eyelashes behind her glasses and worked her fingers into the buttons on Trent's cardigan.

Grinning, Blaine put his arm over her shoulder and tugged her back far enough for Trent to extricate himself from her grasp. "Becky, I'm hurt. I thought you loved _me_."

She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. (He'd never get used to being tall enough for someone to look up at him.) "That was before I walked in here and saw you all cozy with your ex over there. There's not enough testosterone in the former Soviet Union to a grow a beard that could cover up the fact that you two are back together again. And I am no one's hag, bitch!" With that she threaded her arm through one of Trent's and pulled him back to the throng. "C'mon, cutie! Let me tell you how I can rock your world."

His eyes wide and mouth blowing fish bubbles as words eluded him, Blaine chuckled and turned back to where his parents were still mingling with the teachers. Before he could slot himself back against Kurt, Sue Sylvester wrapped an around his shoulder and bent closer to his ear. "Actually, the only reason I'm here amidst this abhorrent display of pretense and white privilege is because I was hoping for a little one on one time with Half Pint's gorgeous older brother. Where exactly is the handsomest man in America hiding?"

Blaine shook his head but snickered, far past the point of being surprised or offended by anything that came out of Sue's mouth. In fact, he should have known she had ulterior motives. He really should have. "Well, Coach, Cooper isn't here yet. He does this thing every year where he calls a week before Christmas and says his shooting schedule won't let him get home for the holiday, then sneaks in at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning so he can surprise us all when we wake up, just like in that old coffee commercial."

"Exceptional," she grinned, rocking back on her heels with her hands on her hips. "I'd have expected nothing less from a man of such impeccable star quality." She wandered off, deep in thought, her tongue pouching the inside of her cheek.

After a few more minutes of chatter and mingling, Blaine turned in the direction that seemed the most likely to address the largest number of guests. "Well, don't all just stand there. We're so happy to have everyone. I was totally bummed that I couldn't go along caroling. Thank you guys. Thank you so much for thinking of me!" Blaine extricated himself from Tina's hug, (which, once he reassured her that, no, she wouldn't hurt him, got awkwardly clingy very quickly) and directed them through the foyer, past Kurt's lavish Christmas tree and the glittering staircase to the sitting room across the hall. "I believe we have a song to sing."

"And I guess I have hot cocoa to make," Pam volunteered over the bustle. "Give me half an hour."

"Thank you, Mama," Blaine accepted her kiss on the cheek with a blush before taking Kurt's hand and dragging the whole group across the hall.

His mind was already seated at the piano pulling the opening chords of "Wintersong" out of his inner music catalog when he was jerked abruptly back into the moment just inside the doorway, having reached the end of Kurt's arm. For a second, he was confused, but then saw Kurt glancing pointedly upward, eyebrows quirked suggestively. Glancing over his shoulder at the rest of the guests, he smirked, "If you'll excuse me."

He didn't even care that he had to stand on his tiptoes, thanks to Kurt's affinity for big, chunky boots. He didn't care about the applause and catcalls, Artie's wolf whistle, or the fact that, for some reason, Tina spent the rest of the night with a sour pout on her face. He didn't care about anything now that he could call Kurt his boyfriend again. And yes, he knew that was an unhealthy thought, but it was Christmas Eve. His inner therapist could shut the hell up for one day.

As Kurt's eyes uncrossed, still close enough to breathe in the same, candy cane scented air, Blaine pulled him back down for one more bruising crush before letting his hand slide down from where it had worked its way into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Cooper was definitely getting a thank you card for this.

-#-

"Show me how it works," Kurt prompted. Eyes fixed on the gadget Blaine was fidgeting with, he curled himself around from behind, chin nestled against his shoulder as he mouthed over the stubble sprouting up along the edge of his jaw. One hand slid up under the hem of the silken pajama top between them and glided around to the soft swell of stomach just below the jut of Blaine's rib cage. Blaine's breath stuttered for a second, skin jumping under Kurt's fingers, and he stretched out under the cover of their joined sleeping bags to maximize the contact between them.

Most of the impromptu guests had headed out after an hour of singing and another fifteen minutes sipping hot cocoa. Brittany reminded those that didn't already have to get to Christmas Eve service at church that they needed to be asleep soon or Santa wouldn't come, leaving Blaine and Kurt to set their trap for Cooper as the parental units headed for bed in the master suite… all the way on the other side of the house. The two rollaway beds they'd pushed together on the second floor landing close enough to the rail to reach through and touch the uppermost branches of the Christmas tree, were really only comfortable if they avoided the slight gap between the mattresses by staying spooned together on one.

Neither of them was complaining.

Kurt felt Blaine tense up beside him, knew how much Blaine didn't like talking about himself in any manner that might point out what he considered to be his weaknesses, but he kissed away the uneasiness, lips in the hair curled behind Blaine's ear. Though obviously distracted, he did have a genuine interest in learning how the ICD wand worked. Now that they were back together, Kurt was free to think about a future with Blaine, and he wanted to be involved in any way he could that would help ensure that future together was as long as possible.

Blaine took a deep breath, releasing his apprehension, as he sighed. "Well, I need to interrogate before I go to bed, anyway."

Kurt squeezed him a little tighter. "I'm going back to New York in a week, and it will make me feel better leaving you at the mercy of this gizmo, if I know how it works."

Blaine lifted his elbow so that Kurt could slide his arm underneath the sling and took his hand, pulling it close into his chest as he stroked his thumb along the back of Kurt's. With his other hand he pressed a button on the wand so that the screen showed a prompt to start the scan. "Well, um, this is the wand that talks to the ICD, which is here." He drew their joined hands up to the space just below his collarbone on the left side. "The ICD is recording information all the time about what's going on with my heart, and if I switch on the wand and tell it to connect to the ICD, the data should transfer from the ICD through the wand and into my phone." He dropped the wand onto the sleeping bag beside him and picked up his phone, opening the app, and then taking the wand up again.

He held it over the ICD, fidgeting nervously as it bleeped its way through the interrogation process, Kurt twining the fingers of his right hand into the hair at the top of Blaine's head as he nestled into the crook of his own bicep. When that seemed finished, Blaine showed him the display that said it was complete, his hand noticeably trembling as he clutched the device, then clicked on upload to send it to his phone. A minute later his phone chimed to indicate that it had received the data. "Then, I can look at the data and see what it says."

For a second, Blaine seemed to forget his unease and chuckled deep in his chest.

"What?" Kurt chided.

"Nothing. It's just…Sam's going to love this," Blaine mused, beaming with that glow that only came from shared geekdom, an expression Kurt shared with Blaine only when it came to music and fashion. Techno babble and science fiction was more Blaine's thing with Artie and Sam. "He's already telling everyone he's going to med school so he can invent me a cyber heart."

Blaine grinned, and Kurt didn't know if it was the implication that Sam Evans would consider going to med school or just that Sam would consider doing it for Blaine. Either way, that was totally something Sam would say, logistics be damned.

"So what does it show?" Kurt prodded, squinting as he tried to make heads or tails out of the graphs and medical terminology on the screen.

"Well," Blaine offered, "the fact that it doesn't prompt me to send the information to my doctor or tell me to call 911 is a pretty good sign that nothing major happened today. He thumb scrolled down to a chart. "This shows if I had any PVC's, NSVTs, or any sustained arrhythmias since the last interrogation, and what if anything the ICD did to intervene."

Kurt nodded. He'd done enough research on Blaine's condition to be familiar with the acronyms but let Blaine explain, anyway.

"A PVC or pre-ventricular contraction is an extra heartbeat, where the lower chambers of my heart contract before they've actually had a chance to fill with blood. It's like a little extra flutter, and it's not really a big deal. Everyone has these from time to time and just don't know it. A hit of adrenaline or a moment of overwhelming emotion can cause the heart to do that. My beta blockers are supposed to keep those kind of reactions to external stimuli at a minimum. The ones I do have are pretty much due to whatever faulty electrical impulses are caused by my condition. NSVT means I had three or more of those within thirty seconds but that it didn't last longer than that. Those moments of non-sustained ventricular tachycardia are more dangerous because they're sometimes warnings or precursors to a sustained tachycardia, which could get serious enough to actually cause my heart to stop moving blood."

"Two episodes of NSVT today," Kurt pointed out. "Is that bad?"

"No," Blaine explained, already much more at ease than he'd been at the beginning of the conversation. "I actually had three yesterday, so that's better. As long as that's all that happens, the combination of medication and restricted exercise are working."

"Well good." Kurt pulled Blaine tighter against him. "As fun and educational as this evening has been, here endeth the lesson."

Blaine chuckled softly, dropping the wand and phone in a pile on the bed and craning against his pillow to see Kurt out of one eye. "Is that so?" he grinned.

"It is," Kurt stated decisively, his voice barely a rumble in his throat.

"And you're an expert now?"

"Mmm-hmm, as soon as it's officially released, I'm going to install that app on my phone so you can send me the data."

"Wow, that sounds really…romantic," Blaine teased.

"How could it not be?" Kurt chided. "Who wouldn't want actual physical evidence that I can make your heart skip a beat?"

"Mmm," Blaine sighed. "I guess it's only fair, since apparently I 'take your breath away.'"

On cue, Kurt's breath stuttered, touched that Blaine remembered just how much of an effect he had on Kurt. Eyes falling to half-mast as he released his hand from Blaine's and slid it back underneath the hem of his pajama top, Kurt considered and dismissed a dozen ways to tell Blaine just how gorgeous he was, how much he took Kurt's breath away every single day.

Though words eluded him, his body knew just what he wanted to say. His palm rested flat against Blaine's stomach as he experimented with his lips, teeth, and tongue, searching out all those once familiar places he knew would make Blaine's breath stutter under his hand, his own heart thudding against the shoulder blades pressed against his chest. He knew he'd found the perfect combination of reverie and want when Blaine's fingers fisted in the nylon of the sleeping bag and the skin under Kurt's palm went from rising and falling to twitching in waves that urged his hand lower along the dark trail of hair beneath his navel and down to the elastic waistband nested over his hips. He didn't hesitate more than the amount of time it took to say, "I love you," before he breached the barrier.

Sometimes there just weren't enough words.

-#-

Blaine woke with a start, the scent of evergreen heavy in the air from leaving the lights on overnight. His eyes squinted into the twinkling glare as he tried to process the reason he'd opened them in the first place. He was within two seconds of letting them fall shut again and settling into the warmth wrapped around him, Kurt's arms enough to wall off anything with bite from getting in and thick enough to smother any sparks he might use to burn himself.

Then, he remembered where he was and why he was there and jolted awake, eyes narrowing to slits as he tried to see through the tree branches they'd nested their beds under and through to the other side where he could almost make out the foot of the stairs inside the foyer. The pile of luggage carefully lined up on the bottom step made a smile split his face so wide his breath whooshed out as he tugged at the hand clenched in his own. He barely had time to wonder at how, just months ago, he'd had to force a smile to welcome his brother home, and now things had definitely changed for the better. And when Cooper leaned over the luggage to gaze up at the tree from the bottom of the stairs, meeting Blaine's gaze through the branches, a whole lot of the crap that was his life these past months lost its leverage, the scale tipping slightly in the direction of everything he'd regained as a result.

"Heey, Cooop!" Blaine drawled, tongue still lazy despite his enthusiasm. "Merry Christmas!"

"Blainey?" Cooper peered through the branches then leapt over the luggage and up three steps to get a better view of the landing as Blaine felt Kurt stirring behind him.

Bracing himself up on his one elbow, Blaine stroked Kurt's hand, encouraging him to full wakefulness. Cooper grinned broadly and took the stairs two by two before he thunked down on the foot of the bed beside him, one hand grasping Blaine's ankle and giving it a playful shake.

"Hey, Squeak, either you've grown an extra arm, there, or someone's been indulging in a Merry Christmas handjob." He smacked the leg beside him where it was twined with Blaine's under the covers. "Merry Christmas, Kurt!"

Behind him, Kurt startled to a half sit, freeing Blaine to do the same, drawing his knees up to his chest before sliding them to the floor. He shrugged off Cooper's attempt to help him, obviously struggling to find something to grasp other than the sling. "I got it."

"You sure? I heard about your surgery." Cooper tried to sound aloof, despite his concern, and Blaine was thankful, when, instead of giving him the once over searching gaze everyone else greeted him with, as though looking for the visible chinks in the armor where he might start falling apart, Cooper reached over and mussed Kurt's hair as though he was just the second little brother Cooper never knew he wanted. "My God, Kurt, you sleep with hair spray in?" His gaze widened as if in realization. He gawped in mock horror at the palm of his hand, turning it back and forth as if to inspect for contamination. "I mean, that is hair spray, right? Not, like... a little 'There's Something About Mary,'... EEEW!" He shuddered, wiping his hand in the covers.

"Oh, please, Cooper," Kurt grumbled, his tone already sharp despite the abrupt awakening, "we're not laggards who don't clean up our messes." Then, with a drowsy smirk that he smeared with back of his hand before scrubbing the back of his head, he added, "And besides, there's no mess if you swallow."

"Kurt! Oh my God," Blaine collapsed back into his pillow, burying his face to hide the burning blush he felt creeping up from under his jaw.

Kurt kissed the back of his neck. "Sorry, baby, you know my filter's broken when I first wake up."

"Really, you guys? Under the tree and with my parents in the house?"

"The tree adds ambience, and your parents were asleep downstairs on the other side of the house," Kurt snarked, clearly unapologetic. "If this was my neighborhood, they'd literally be in the next house they're so far away."

"Aaaanyway," Cooper groaned, rising off the bed. "Merry Christmas, you guys. I'll be downstairs starting the coffee, whenever you, uh, finish what you're doing here and want to come down."

When he disappeared down the stairs, Blaine finally rolled out of his pillow sanctuary and met Kurt's gleaming eyes as he hovered over him with a sweet smile on his lips. "I hate you, and if I had another free arm, I'd totally smack you with a pillow right now."

"You love me," Kurt breathed. "And I love when you smile like this. Don't ever stop." He leaned closer, their lips parting without preamble. When he pulled back several long minutes later, there was no breath left for more than a, "Merry Christmas."

"Mmmm." Blaine was sure it would be.

-#-

"Hey, Squirt. Nice pajamas. It's good to know your brother coming home is worth dressing up for." Cooper pushed a steaming mug across the counter. "Decaf. Kurt?"

Blaine chuckled. "Fixing his hair. I told him Christmas in your pajamas was an Anderson tradition. He wasn't thrilled."

"Why do you think I always drive in that morning?" Cooper smirked.

"Flair for the dramatic?" Blaine ventured.

"No, so I can put on real clothes."

Blaine laughed over his cup of coffee. "You look good, Coop."

"You, too." Then, after taking a sip of his own. "Are you?"

Blaine shrugged. Something had changed between them in the last months. Whatever it was, for whatever reason, Blaine didn't feel the same urge to keep up a pretense as he used to, not the way he still did with most people, forcing them to dig in and pull back the layers of half-truth to get to something totally real. "Yeah, you know, I'm not exactly tap dancing my way through life at the moment, but I'm still kicking."

Cooper nodded. "And your surgery went well? I see you've lost the sling."

Blaine shrugged to show that his shoulder and arm worked just fine. "Yeah, it was killing my neck, and it's just to keep me from over-reaching, anyway, so Dad said I can take it off during the day. I still have to wear it when I sleep, though." He huffed a soft laugh. "Apparently, I flail around, or something."

"Says the black eye you gave me on that camping trip when you were six." Cooper's grin had a nostalgic quality to it that Blaine wasn't used to seeing. It took him a minute of blinking up at him to pinpoint what it was exactly.

"I forgot about that."

Cooper ran a hand over the back of his neck. "Me, too, for a minute there." He set his cup down on the counter. "So, can I see it?" he asked, arms wide.

"What? The sling? I put it in the wash."

"No, the ICD, Blainey. I read sometimes you can see it. C'mon, you can show me. It's really cool, isn't it?"

"It really isn't," Blaine dismissed, but he knew it was useless to resist his brother. He set his cup down next to Cooper's and, with a roll of his eyes, straightened against the counter and undid the top two buttons on his pajama top. He pulled the flap open and looked the other way as Cooper leaned in to examine the incision site.

"Oh, wow! I can totally see it. You're like a cyborg or something. Must be fun getting through the airport with that thing in th..." He broke off when Kurt slid up beside them, his hair freshly styled, pajamas looking like they hadn't even been slept in. "Kurt! Blaine was just showing me his robot parts. Have you seen it?"

"I do not have robot parts," Blaine grumbled through a smile.

"A robot," Kurt mused. "That would explain a lot." Kurt slid between them and placed a hand on Blaine's hip before putting his other over Blaine's pulling back the fold of his pajamas a little farther. He barely glanced at the bulge under Blaine's collarbone, though, opted instead to use the fabric to pull them closer together. "Anything this perfect had to have been designed in a lab." Blaine leaned up for a kiss, his eyes just sliding shut when Cooper ruined the moment.

"I'd ask him if he brushed his teeth. We both know where that mouth has been."

-#-

The day followed suit with the morning, quiet moments of nostalgia interspersed with second and first hand embarrassment to keep them all humble even as the mounds of gifts and shredded paper piled around them. Kurt's minor meltdown at finding out that Christmas dinner was prepared at the local deli and delivered in plastic containers only almost distracted them from Blaine's big announcement of the day.

Standing at the dinner table, which even Kurt couldn't deny looked just as extravagant with pre-cooked food (that Pamela swore was specially prepared with only the finest ingredients) laid out on it as it would have if he'd spent all day sweating in the kitchen, Blaine swirled his glass of hot cider and cleared his throat.

"Um, before everyone gets too busy shoveling green bean casserole into their faces, I have just one more surprise. I was going to save it for New Year's Eve, but since everyone I want to tell is right here, right now... I've picked a school."

Pam wiped her mouth with a napkin before placing it back into her lap and sat up, grinning expectantly. "Well tell us, dear. Where are you going?"

Blaine looked down at his swirling cider as though it were an envelope at the Emmys, and Kurt couldn't tell if he was trying to gain the courage to speak or only drawing out the suspense. The mound of high end recording equipment and compositional software Blaine had unwrapped that afternoon had been a pretty good indicator as to which field of study he'd decided on. They'd spent hours discussing whether Broadway was still in is future, given his physical limitations, and when none of the other options really put any kind of spark in Blaine's eye the way that music did, Kurt knew Blaine was heading to New York next year. But Blaine hadn't mentioned any auditions or letters of acceptance. NYADA didn't even send theirs out until May, so...

"I'm going to Tisch," Blaine finally blurted, eyebrows peaking as he looked up without raising his chin, obviously nervous about the reception of his news.

"NYU? That's awesome, Pipsqueak!" Cooper immediately slid his chair back enough to reach over and clap his brother between the shoulder blades. "Okay, I was secretly holding out for UCLA, but Tisch is no slouch. I hear their selection process rivals Juilliard's, and you actually have to be smart to get in."

Kurt went one further and stood up, tugging Blaine into a hug from beside him with a squeal. "New York! You're going to be in New York! It's really happening! I can't believe it." Leaning back slightly, Kurt thought his face might actually break, he was grinning so hard. "But wait, when did you audition for Tisch?" Still holding hands, they sat back down together, Blaine jostling his silverware self-consciously as he scooted closer to the table and the four pairs of eyes fixed upon him.

"Actually, uh, I sent in my application back in October, right about the time all of that stuff was going down with the school board. Somehow they got ahold of that video Sue made of that whole fiasco, and they were so impressed with my 'eloquence and presence of mind under adverse circumstances' that they sent one of their people to watch us at Sectionals." He shrugged. "I guess they liked me, even though I was really only in one number."

"Of course they did, honey," Pam interjected. "You were amazing in that number, and it was _your_ inspiration that made that song work. Anyone could see that."

"Mamaaa."

"No, she's right," Thomas agreed. "You worked hard, and there's nothing wrong with accepting praise where it's due, Son. We're all proud of you."

Sighing, Blaine took one hesitant breath and turned to Kurt. "And you're not mad?"

"About what?"

"That I didn't pick NYADA? I know we discussed it..."

"We discussed the fact that NYADA's curriculum is far too physical with your limitations and that their record, when it comes to supporting students' mental health, is less than stellar. I really didn't expect you to apply there. And let's not forget that they don't send out acceptance letters until everyone else has closed admissions. If I hadn't made it in, I'd have been the one in therapy, and I mean that in the most respectful way possible."

Blaine laughed, obviously relieved as Kurt's thumb smoothed over the back of his hand where they were couched together atop the table. "Well, yeah, there's all that, but honestly, Kurt, and don't take this the wrong way, but those aren't the real reasons I didn't pick NYADA." Flipping his hand over to grasp Kurt's more firmly, "Honestly, I want to be in New York with you so much, but I want to do my own thing, too. I-I'm just getting my feet under me, you know? I know I'm going to stumble every once in a while, and I'm okay with that—all part of the process—but I really don't want to be underfoot in any way when that happens. I can't—I can't ever be the thing that gets in the way of you succeeding."

"Oh, honey." Kurt couldn't keep the crack out of his voice.

"No, Kurt. You have to promise me, no matter what happens, if we can't both make it and be on Broadway together someday, you have to make it. As long as you make it, I will never be a failure." He squeezed Kurt's hand harder. "Promise me."

"Of course." Kurt heaved himself across the space between their chairs, their arms wrapping so tightly together they were one spirit balanced between two bodies. "Of course I promise, but honey, you could never, ever be underfoot. We both end up on the floor sometimes, and we pick each other up. That's what we do. And I'll promise never to stop until I make it, but you have to promise you'll always ask for a hand up when you need one."

Blaine didn't answer, just nodded so hard Kurt thought his shoulder might be bruised where Blaine's chin dug in. They pulled back a few seconds later, suddenly aware that everyone was still listening and hadn't so much as passed the rolls in the interim.

"O-okay, then," Kurt concluded, the two of them sniffling in unison and releasing their hands to reach for napkins to wipe over their faces before placing them in their laps. "New York, here we come."

Clearing his throat a little more loudly than necessary, Cooper raised his fork. "On that note... Good food. Good meat. Good God, let's eat."

Trading sideways glances and touches under the table, Kurt wasn't sure he or Blaine even tasted anything that crossed their lips for the rest of the dinner, but one thing he didn't miss was the unexpected way his heart simultaneously leapt and clenched with dread when Blaine pulled him close over the sinkful of suds, drenched in soapy water and the afterglow of the day and whispered, "Best. Christmas. Ever."

Because there was only ever one way to go from there.

-#-

Maybe it was the twinkling of the tree lights or the ever-present fire in the fireplace, possibly the exorbitant amount of tinsel, glitter, and everything sparkly reflecting the flickering flames and meticulously wrapped strings of lights, but the glow and then the afterglow of the holiday carried over one more day until Kurt's bags were packed by the front door ready for him to head home and spend the last few days of his vacation with his newly returned family. Of course, Blaine's bags were right next to his, and since Pam and Thomas were both returning to work in the morning to get in a few important meetings before the long New Year's weekend, and Cooper was flying out as well, Blaine and Kurt were really just trading one loving family holiday for another and not missing out on anything in their absence. The Hudmels hadn't seen Blaine since his surgery and were more than anxious to see for themselves that he was as okay as he professed to be, and there were still family stockings tacked up over the Hudson-Hummel mantle.

The last afternoon at the Anderson's was really just a prolonged goodbye to Cooper who wouldn't likely return until May for Blaine's graduation, though he promised to put in an appearance in the audience if/ _when_ New Directions made it to L.A for Nationals. Which was how they ended up in the music room where Kurt was forced to judge three rounds of Anderson brother sing-offs. Currently, they were tied at one and one, even though Kurt knew that, personal bias or not, Blaine was ten times the singer his brother was. At least he was on any other day. Today he was... off. Still amazing, but not quite up to par. Kurt was struggling to put his finger on what was different or lacking when Cooper, and all of his tactless glory, addressed the issue head on.

"Blainey, are you throwing this competition? Because as much as I adore the pandering, I sort of resent the implication that I can't win this thing on my own merit."

Blaine looked honestly taken aback and cleared his throat before protesting. "What? No, of course not. I would never, and definitely not for _you_. Not after all those times you humiliated me growing up. Remember that time we made all that money going door to door singing for the neighbors only for me to find out, years later, when I learned to read, that you had a sign around my neck that said we were taking donations for Jerry's Kids?"

Cooper smirked, obviously pleased with himself. "Yeah, boy that was brilliant!"

"It was fraud!" Blaine corrected, humming to himself as he squirmed on the piano bench.

Cooper shrugged in dismissal. "Whatever. So, if you're not throwing the competition, then why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?" Blaine asked, clearing is throat again.

"That!" Cooper remarked, pointing both index fingers simultaneously. "You're constantly either clearing your throat or humming, and it's not even on pitch. Why are you doing that?"

Looking puzzled, Blaine opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again to cough tightly into a fist.

"He's right," Kurt agreed. "You've been doing that for like, the last fifteen minutes."

Shrugging, Blaine pursed his lips in thought. "I hadn't realized. I guess." He laid a hand flat at the base of his throat where it met his chest and hummed to himself. "I just have this tickle. Maybe I'm coming down with something, or..."

"Dad!" Blaine and Kurt both jumped back as Cooper yelled over his shoulder. "Blaine's sick!"

"Wait, what? I didn't say that, I just said..." He turned to chase Cooper's yell with his own. "Never mind! I'm fine!"

"No, Squirt. C'mon, if you're coming down with something this close to your surgery, it could be a big deal."

"He's right," Kurt agreed, suddenly worried. "You could have an infection or...or..."

"Blaine?" Dr. Anderson appeared in the doorway.

"It's nothing, Dad," Blaine denied avoiding his father's gaze as he coughed into his hand again, "just a little tickle in my throat. It's probably the dry air."

Thomas nodded, while presuming to accept that explanation but didn't hesitate to take Blaine's wrist between his fingers feeling for his pulse while searching his face with a practiced gaze, taking in any change in pallor or eye brightness. "In your throat or in your chest?"

"Huh?" Blaine fidgeted on the bench, obviously wishing he could yank his hand back but not willing to defy his father's authority to do so.

"Is the tickle in your throat or your chest?" Thomas asked.

Clearing his throat again, Blaine thought for a second then shrugged. "Um, I can't really tell, why?"

"Your pulse seems fast to me. Do you have your wand?"

"What? Um, yeah." Blaine fished his interrogation wand out of his pocket and handed it to his father. Kurt hadn't realized he kept it that close at hand and was a little unsettled at the possible reasoning behind it.

"Let's just take a look-see, shall we?" Thomas took the wand and placed it over the device in Blaine's chest, all of them falling silent as it beeped through its program even as Blaine's breaths got shorter and tighter beneath it.

When it alarmed in his hand, Mr. Anderson frowned down at the display, not waiting for the upload to finish before he said, "180."

Blaine gulped, already breathing noticeably faster. "Sustained?" He squeaked. "But I-I'm not doing anything. We're just sitting here and singing. It can't be right. Do it again."

"Blaine..."

"Check it again!" Blaine insisted, grabbing the device from his father's hand.

"I'm sending the data to the lab right now. You need to calm down or you'll make it worse."

"What's going on?" Cooper asked, eyes darting from his brother to his father and back again. "Sustained? Sustained what? Is he having an episode?"

Thomas nodded, calculated and slow as if to willfully force some calm into the situation. "I think the tickle you're feeling is the pacer charge trying to interrupt the abnormal impulses. Depending on the voltage and where the lead is in conjunction to your vagus nerve, it's possible you can feel it going off, but it's doing exactly what it's supposed to do, Blaine. This is why you got the implant."

Eyes wide, Blaine placed the telemetry wand over his chest, hand visibly shaking, then nearly dropped it a minute later when the screen showed a yellow alert indicating that pacing mode had been activated. "183. That's high, right? Anything over 100 is..."

"High, yes," Thomas agreed, "But still manageable. You have to calm down and let the ICD do its job."

"No!" Blaine bolted to standing. "I don't want to get shocked. Am I going to get shocked?" He started pacing the floor, his elbow clipping Kurt's shoulder as he pushed past him, a hand sliding through his hair that ended up fisted at the nape of his neck.

Kurt reached out to stop him but flinched as Blaine jerked out of his grasp.

"Honey?" Pam showed up in the doorway, clearly alarmed by the shouting.

"Pamela, bring Blaine a Xanax and a glass of water," Thomas instructed, his voice carefully level as he stood and placed himself in Blaine's path, knocked backward half a step before he succeeded in slowing his son to a stop. "Blaine, if you give the pacer a chance to work..."

"It's been working!" Blaine tried to jerk out of his father's embrace but was held firmly by a strong hand on each of his shoulders. "If that's the tickle I've been feeling, then it's been working for, like, twenty minutes already, and my heart rate just went up!"

"It went up because you're panicking, Blaine. You need to calm down."

"Easy for you to say! You're not the one who's about to get knocked on his ass by a freaking cattle prod in his chest!" By then, he was clearly livid, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, bright red splashed over linen white.

"Hey, Squirt, why don't you..."

"Shut up, Coop!" Blaine glared daggers sharp enough to send his brother staggering back onto the piano bench hard enough to scoot it back several inches before he butted up against the keyboard.

"Son, I know this is scary, but it's going to happen sometimes. It's how we manage your condition. This is about staying informed and keeping one step ahead of the game. You're going to New York next fall, remember? You need to be able to handle these situations when they arise." When Blaine kept shaking his head, a silent litany of 'no, no, no, no', Thomas slid his hands up from his shoulders to settle on Blaine's cheeks, willing his head to still, eyes locking in an effort to force back the wave of panic.

Kurt's own heart threatened to beat out of his chest, desperate to do something and warring against the hopelessness that him kept chained and silent, quivering in place as his fingers spasmed open and closed.

"Here you go, dear." Pam arrived with a glass of water, her other fist closed tightly around Blaine's anxiety medication. "Why don't you..."

"No!" They all jumped as the glass of water crashed against the far wall. "No! This is bullshit." This time he managed to break himself loose as he twisted in his father's grasp. "You tell yourself whatever you want, but we all know this is not about me being able to manage my condition. This is about you being able to sleep at night when you're halfway around the world and I'm still here! This is about you being able to leave with a clear conscience. And so what if I have to spend every second of my life worrying about getting electrocuted; at least you did everything you could to make sure I don't drop dead while you're gone!"

Even Thomas' strictly schooled composure cracked under the accusation, and he blinked harshly as if he'd been slapped before he reached forward, trying to catch Blaine as he spun out of reach. "Blaine..."

"I changed my mind!"

"What are you saying?"

"I want it out." Blaine's voice was substantially quieter, then, no longer shouting as he uttered the last, his gaze fixed and steady, face blank. That was the answer. Clearly that was the solution to all his problems. He'd made up his mind. Decision final. "Just take it out. I don't need it. I don't need... you. So there. You've got my permission, or my blessing, or whatever it is you think you need, and you can just go now. I got this, okay? I don't need any of you." None of them moved despite his arm dramatically sweeping toward the door.

"Blaine..." Kurt wasn't sure where he found the power to speak. He felt as if his entire body was constricted under the weight of the situation, coils and coils of fear and desperation wrapped around him like the tail of a serpent. "You don't mean that."

"Don't..." Blaine lashed around like the crack of whip, head snapping toward Kurt fast enough to stagger him back with just the burn of the glare. "...tell. me. what. I. mean." Blaine bit off each word, his lower jaw jutting in defiance as his lip curled back, exposing his bottom teeth.

The whip cracked again, and he spun on his father. "I want it out."

Thomas closed his eyes as he spoke. "Son, I know this is scary, but you have to believe me when I say, it beats the alternative."

"Says you," Blaine spat. "This was your idea. I never wanted it. You did this to me, but you're not the one who has to live with it. I am." His eyes met each of theirs briefly as he took a beat to let his words sink in. "And I don't want to."

Cooper wrapped his arms around his mother as she slumped on the bench beside him, the implication behind Blaine's words settling into them all like the room had just depressurized.

Thomas took a steadying breath, still not opening his eyes. "You can't mean that you would rather..."

"I can, and I would," Blaine rasped. Now his was the calm, decisive voice with the determined cadence, but each beat only heightened the growing trepidation with its blatant mockery of tranquility. Jaw set, he narrowed his eyes, boring a hole through the wall of defense his father had thrown up. "I hate you, and I will _never_. forgive. you. for. this."

Kurt couldn't suppress the choked sob that ripped from his throat, not even with the hand he clapped over his mouth in startled disbelief. He didn't recognize the face that whirled on him in that moment, wished he had Thomas' wisdom to shut his eyes so he could conjure up an image of the Blaine he knew and loved to paste over the one in front of him.

"What's the matter, Kurt? You don't like what you see? You're scared? What?" Kurt felt more than saw the distance between them narrow as Blaine loomed toward him while Kurt tried to avert his eyes. "Can't you handle it? Where's that fierce Kurt we all know and love now that the cards are on the table? Take a good look, because this is me. You think you understand me? Think you understand what you're really saying when you say you want to be with me? Well, here I am." He loomed closer, eyes almost maniacal with what Kurt knew was mostly utter terror and the craptastic way his brain chose to deal with it. "What do you think of me now?"

Kurt hated that his voice picked that moment to be swallowed into the pit of anguish in his gut and refuse to surface, that all he could get out was a garbled choke he knew Blaine would consider a rejection, and he couldn't even explain it away.

"That's what I thought," and despite the canvas of self-satisfaction and validation Blaine painted over it, Kurt recognized the agonizing glimmer of desolation and abandonment in his eyes just before stalked away. "No one would choose this. Hell, my own family is only here because they feel responsible. If they had a choice..."

In his pacing, he nearly collided with the belly of the baby grand piano, halting so abruptly against the crook of it that the rows of family photographs that had accumulated atop the closed lid over the years quaked in their ornate frames ahead of him like the beginning ripples of a tsunami rolling beneath the surface of an otherwise still ocean. One of the frames balanced precariously close to the edge beside the music rack and tipped silently over the edge. Cooper snagged it, catlike, out of the air before it could crash to the ground, the silence almost louder in its overwhelming nothingness.

No one said a word as he righted it back in its place. The picture was one of little Blaine in a white tuxedo perched at the keyboard with his coattails dangling lower than his little feet on the opposite side of the bench, his tiny chin tucked down between the leaves of his bow tie as his lips pursed in concentration beneath his thick eyebrows. Blaine followed everyone's gaze, his own grimly sardonic as he began a slow clap.

"Nice catch, Coop. Really, what a save. Wouldn't want to ruin that sweet, perfect image now, would we?" A beat as a shadow flitted across his face, wiping the glint of cynicism and cold calculation in its wake, leaving wide-eyed, abject horror as he coughed, twice back-to-back, hand pressed flat against the base of his throat. Then he stood, stock still except for the noticeable tremor in his limbs, the waving needles of the knitting women waiting for the guillotine to drop. When nothing more happened, after two then three hesitant breaths, all pretense crumpled along with Blaine's composure and restraint.

The sound that came out of his throat was undefinable –the last wail of a demon at its own exorcism, a sobbing, scraping, mewling roar that must have opened one wound as it healed another—and then the floor was littered in broken glass and the shredded tatters of glossy photo paper. The entire display of carefully preserved memories scattered under the whirlwind of Blaine's arm as he swept them to the hardwood, chest flat against the black lacquered wood in order to reach all the way to the other side, leaving no frame upright, no cover glass uncracked as his feet crunched over the remnants. And then he was falling, sliding, crash landing on the floor, face buried against the padded arm of the leather sofa as he pulled his knees up to his chest and rocked, eyes wet and leaking silently. His breath hitched at the base of his throat with increased frequency and effort, the slight whistle of a wheeze making the rest of the air in the room seem condensed into lead.

Kurt was the first to break the paralysis. Chin squaring, he straightened his shoulders by sucking in a giant breath in an effort to reinforce himself in all the places that had collapsed under the strain. He couldn't consciously move his feet but somehow managed to activate whatever muscle memory it required to relocate himself from his dumbstruck stance in the middle of the room to quietly and carefully folded cross-legged on the floor beside Blaine.

While his first instinct was to reach out and physically uncoil Blaine from around himself and force him to look in his eyes and to see every ounce of love and sincerity he wanted to convey, he realized the easiest way to shut Blaine out was to lock him in. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap, dropped his chin to his chest and just... breathed. In. Out. In. Out. And when Blaine's hands released their clinch around his knees and dropped to the hardwood with a thunk, Kurt took one, folded it between both of his and pressed it up to his lips, letting his steady, even breaths ghost over the knuckles as he silently willed Blaine to follow his lead, no weight in his grasp, no pressure in his intent.

After a while, the atmosphere seemed to thin out, and it took Kurt a few seconds to realize the wheeze was gone, replaced by deep, slow breaths that jumped and hitched on the inhale and whooshed on the exhale as if there wasn't enough room for air despite how desperately it was needed. When he ventured to look up, he found red-rimmed amber drowning beneath heavy clumped lashes, a watery piercing gaze that reached out from the black hole depths. "Blaine..."

A second later, he was knocked backward against the couch cushions, Blaine's knees on the floor beside his as Blaine's arms wrapped around his waist, his head pressed into Kurt's chest. "I'm sorry," Blaine huffed. "I didn't mean it. I didn't..."

"It's okay." Nothing was. Not really, and yet it wasn't a lie, just nothing to be done about what was done already. "I know you're scared." He smoothed over the back of Blaine's cardigan, not wanting to hold too tightly, already riddled with shrapnel from the recent explosion. "Just... tell me how I can make it better. I can't help you if you won't tell me what you need."

So they sat, Blaine's breaths slowing to match Kurt's, the hitches and jumps fewer and farther between. Eventually, Blaine rolled so they were sitting, slouched side by side against the couch, Blaine's head on Kurt's shoulder as he started to hum.

"All you need is love."

"Blaine, that's not what I meant."

"All you need is love."

"This is not a joke, Blaine."

"All you need is love."

"Not only is that outlook ridiculously minimalist, it's not even true. You can't be... OH!"

"All you need is love."

"This is from 'Moulin Rouge.'" Kurt's mind started to connect all the missing puzzle pieces in what Blaine was trying to say. "The Elephant medley song. Um, you're doing the Christian part, so I guess that makes me Satine?" His brow furrowed in confusion. "Yeah, but her lines don't make any sense in this context, namely because I'm not a prostitute and, last I checked, we are way past the wooing and playing hard to get stage of our relationship." He didn't remind Blaine about not needing the buffer between them, felt as if maybe they both did with three extra pairs of eyes burrowing into them.

"I was made for loving you baby. You were made for loving me." His voice was thin and frail. Normally at this point, Blaine would have slid firmly into his front man persona, eyes agleam as his mouth quirked into a teasing smirk, but all Kurt read in his expression now was a silent plea to play along and keep the door afloat long enough for Blaine to climb aboard, and above all, to never let go.

With a squeeze of their clasped hands, Kurt did the best he could. "The only way of loving me baby, is to pay a lovely fee."

"Just one night. Just one night."

"There's no way, 'cause you can't pay."

"In the name of love. One night in the name of love."

They traded lyrics back and forth, both slouching closer as the adrenaline started to wear off leaving them exhausted and clinging to the words, following them like bread crumbs out of the fairy tale forest of horrors they'd somehow gotten themselves lost in.

He hadn't realized until then just how many of the songs from that medley had been done in one or the other of his two glee clubs, but he couldn't help the flutter in is chest as they came to one from their first, nearly disastrous Valentine's day and remembered the way it had rescued them both from the doldrums of lost and unrequited love. "You'd think that people would have had enough of silly love songs."

"I look around me and I see it isn't so, oh no."

And there it was, if not a smile, at least something of an inner sigh, the last ghost of tension evaporating from Blaine's features as the exhaustion settled over him like a blanket.

"Some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs."

"What's wrong with that, I'd like to know, 'cause here I go again."

By the time they made it through the scraps of "Up Where We Belong," and "Heroes," they were both breathing easy, even as their hands clenched together more tightly than ever. The Blaine beside him transformed one note at a time from the seething nightmare stranger he didn't recognize at all to the terrified lost little boy he was sure no one knew but Kurt and finally to the amazing, brave man they both knew he wanted to be.

"How wonderful life is now you're in the world." They finished together, just like Christian and Satine, but Kurt held Blaine's gaze with his, making sure he knew the connection was all theirs when he stroke a thumb over Blaine's chin and whispered. "There you are. I've been looking for you forever."

Neither one spoke or shifted more than a few inches as Thomas handed Blaine the telemetry wand, reminding them all of the situation at hand. By the time it beeped, the display green and Blaine heaved a sigh as he whispered, "Sixty-seven. It worked," they were all ready for the moment to just be over so they could move out of this crushing limbo of fear and anger and hurt feelings.

Kurt didn't know why that was the moment Finn pulled up outside and honked his horn or why that was the moment he finally fell completely to pieces and ran out, but if he left the Anderson's without his luggage or without Blaine, it wasn't because something was broken or crumbled beneath him. "I'll be back. I promise."

It was to survey the landscape from the top of the hill they'd just crested.

And to cry.

There were tears, lots of them, in the sleeves of Finn's letter jacket, which his brother lent him when he realized he'd left the house without his coat or scarf, in the flannel of his dad's shirt collar, and in the perfumed yarn of Carole's turtle neck sweater, but they dried and took the weight of the world with them.

And when he went back, finding the glass swept up and the frames stacked and organized by size and shape, it wasn't to apologize or to accept an apology. It was just to go back, to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn't going anywhere, and when he did, he would always, _always_ come back.

It wasn't everything that needed to be done to prepare them for what was to come, didn't say everything that needed to be said.

But it was enough.

-#-

AN: I obviously don't own Moulin Rouge or the dozen or so songs they used in that medley, nor can I cite every single one. Just watch the movie. You'll get it.

AN: So, I feel like I need to say that I genuinely believe Blaine's rage to be a plausible reaction. I also believe that, were he not diagnosed and on medication for his bipolar, the reaction could have been a thousand times worse. In that case, it's a distinct possibility that Blaine may actually have tried to remove the device with his own hands. I decided not to go that dark, because he's supposed to be getting better, but… And Kurt's reaction of leaving to clear his head and prove that he would come back could have completely backfired. Never trust someone with a mental illness to be safely through an episode just because they say they are. I only went that route because the threat of shock had passed and the parents and brother were still there. If it had been just the two of them, Kurt could never have left, even if he needed to. I know this from experience. I don't have to say that Blaine can't be held responsible for anything that he said during his rage, do I?


	19. Depolarized

**Warnings:** Darkish thoughts, attempted Vap-o-rape.

"Blaine," Miss Pillsbury acknowledged cordially without rising from her desk as she organized the stack of school brochures and pamphlets in front of her. "You're early."

Blaine grinned his best greeting smile, hands on the back of the upholstered chair in front of him. "Yeah, I guess I am. I have lunch this period. I finished up with a few minutes to spare..."

Ashamed

She nodded, a little stiff in her acceptance of his explanation but gestured for him to have a seat. "Mm-hmm. Well, good, because so do I. It was really thoughtful of you to set up this meeting, but Sam isn't supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes. Is there something else you wanted to talk about? You know, to pass the time?" Between the giant leaves of the drooping bow around her neck and her wide, bright eyes, her smile seemed tight and schooled and gave the impression that she was holding back from asking what she really wanted to know.

Wondering if maybe he seemed overly nervous, considering this meeting wasn't even about him, he straightened the extra layers of clothing he'd taken to wearing of late and tried to sit askance in the chair, as if he could project some air of aloofness he hadn't felt for weeks. The way she watched him knowingly as he adopted his best man-sprawl only to shoot up, stick straight, a few seconds later, hands on his kneecaps and thumbs nearly touching, he half expected her to reach into her drawer.

Failure

"Um, not really," he denied.

Freak

Miss Pillsbury had accepted the responsibility of holding onto the extra bottle of Xanax his doctor prescribed him for keeping at school after the incident he had at home over break. She had put it in the drawer for him 'just in case' without any real explanation as to what the 'case' might be. While Blaine was over eighteen and allowed to handle his own medications, he really didn't like the idea of carrying it around with him during the day or the possibility of it getting lost or stolen on school grounds. He also didn't really trust the school nurse. He'd once gone to her for some aspirin to ease a midterm stress headache, and he was ninety percent sure that she gave him Cipro, due to the fact that, well, it said 'Cipro' right on the tablet and also made him throw up.

Almost a month into the new semester, and he hadn't had any further reason to bring up the topic. Obviously, Miss Pillsbury was respecting his privacy despite her nagging need to know. Blaine was still actively trying to believe that having to adjust his medication because he blew up at his family and trashed the sitting room like some kind of raving lunatic wasn't actually a failure on his part. He preferred not to think about it at all, really, and being here, knowing that's _exactly_ what _she_ was thinking about, made it a whole lot harder to ignore.

He remembered the ponies he'd ridden as a kid, when he was still in training to be the next Jessica Springsteen, and how some of them would lock up, the whites of their eyes growing to twice the normal size when they approached a particularly scary looking fence, and how, if they didn't manage the fear correctly, he usually ended up jumping the fence, sans pony, while said pony galloped to the other end of the arena and as far away from the scary object as it could get. He remembered how sometimes passing the fence sideways several times instead of head on, getting closer and closer without any pressure to actually approach it, sometimes allowed the pony to overcome its fear and eventually come up to it, head on, without batting an eye. He felt a little like that spooky pony right then, looking for some sideways approach to the situation that didn't feel like he was under any obligation to do so.

Actually, he thought maybe that's what he had been doing all along when he first approached Miss Pillsbury with his concerns about Sam. And if so, Miss Pillsbury had probably already figured that out. Those great big eyes didn't seem to miss much.

She nodded, obviously not ready to let it go and seemed to accept that she'd have to be the one to start the conversation. "So," she offered, "It was nice seeing you over break. It looked like you were really enjoying having your whole family together. And Kurt. Your dad's gone back overseas now, hasn't he? And Kurt's in New York? That must be quite a transition for you. That big house with, what, just you and your mother in it? It must be kind of lonely."

Empty

Abandoned

"Well, I stay plenty busy with school. The Sadie Hawkins dance was kind of spur of the moment and student council had to jump through quite few hoops to pull it off. Now we've got Regionals coming up, and this whole calendar thing." He scratched the back of his head. "That's actually why I'm a little early. Sam and I usually do lunch, but he's so gung ho about having the perfect centerfold body that he works out during lunch. It turns out I can eat really fast when I'm not laughing at his impressions the whole time."

Or when he really didn't feel much like eating at all.

"Busy," she parroted with a knowing nod, her hands clasped over her desktop. Blaine's eyes were drawn to the chunky flower bracelet on her wrist as a way of avoiding eye contact. "Sometimes it's good to have plenty of distractions." And Blaine couldn't quite tell if she was talking about Blaine's schedule or the bracelet.

He shrugged, "Well, it passes the time, and does a lot of good, you know, for the school and the Glee club."

"What about for you?"

Blaine shrugged.

Lonely

It was funny how, over the course of time, the trivial and the mundane could strip down and round off the edges, take everything wonderful and terrible in his life and make them all slot together seamlessly into some kind of manageable routine, but for Blaine's sake, he was glad it worked out that way. Time was something he seemed to have plenty of. Of course, he had no way of knowing if that was true, no one could, but now that he had plans –Kurt and Regionals, Kurt and Nationals, Kurt and New York, Blaine and Regionals, Blaine and Nationals, Blaine and New York... and well, Kurt and Blaine –time seemed to be passing a lot more slowly. There was more empty space between moments, and he knew from experience –the hard kind that was supposed to make him wiser –that empty space was his enemy.

Abyss

So, if he was staying a little busier these days, maybe working through lunch, or hanging out at the tire shop with Finn even though Burt was back in Washington, it wasn't so much to take up time as it was to span the broader expanse of the space within it.

"I don't know," he mused. "Alone time is good, I guess, but the distractions help."

"Help with what, exactly?"

"They keep things, 'in here,' from getting too intense," he admitted, patting his chest to indicate an internal struggle he couldn't quite enunciate. "I had something of a breakdown the day my brother left for L.A."

"We generally call them 'episodes' these days."

"Yeah," he chuckled drily. "Maybe if you're talking about an episode of 'American Horror Story.'"

"That bad, huh?" The corners of her mouth pulled down in a frown of empathy.

Crazy

Scary

Rage

"Thinking about it too much scares me a little."

And there it was, the reason he needed the time. He hadn't been quite right with himself since his 'episode.' He was okay. He'd apologized to everyone for scaring them, come to terms with just how scared he was himself, and had a new tick mark in his mental checklist of potential triggers he needed to learn to manage, but he was learning to manage it. In time. But sometimes what he really needed was to take a step away.

He just didn't quite trust himself, yet. The framework of Blaine Anderson was still standing, the foundation as firm as it had ever been, but the flash fire that swept through it that day had gutted it. While the paint was barely blistered, most of the load bearing walls would require considerable shoring up before it was safe to let anyone inside. It was going to take a while.

Which was fine, as long as he didn't allow himself to consider how _long_ it was taking, because then he fell into the empty spaces where his thoughts daisy chained together in an attempt to shackle him to an anchor that had yet to touch bottom.

Needy

Weak

His mother had taken his meltdown the hardest. Though she never mentioned it directly, and would definitely never admit to any causality, she'd taken to waking up early in the mornings and fixing him breakfast under the pretense of spending more time with him. He suspected it was really just to make sure he was taking all of his medication. She had yet to accept that his condition was not static, and no matter how well the treatments were working, there would always be triggers. It was not her or anyone else's fault. If it made her feel better, the least he could do was eat her oatmeal or scrambled eggs or whatever and plaster on a smile while he choked down his meds every day.

Pathetic

Miss Pillsbury cleared her throat as if she'd noticed he'd started building the chain again. "Well, then, without forcing the issue, maybe I could just offer one small piece of advice?"

Blaine folded his arms, his blinking more exaggerated than the nod he offered, which was mostly just his chin. "Sure."

"It's okay to fill your time with distractions, but if you're not careful, you end up with more nothing than you started with." When he squinted back at her for clarification, she said, "It's like one of those baby doll bottles they used to make that looked full of milk when you set it on its bottom, but when you turned it upside down, it was empty. If you should happen to be curious enough," she squirmed a little and looked away with a blush, "and in possession of a ball peen hammer, you could break it open and find out it was essentially empty all along, and what looked like a lot of milk was just a very small amount spread very thinly over a very large surface. Which just goes to show, if you try to fill up a lot of space with a couple of drops of some unknown, probably germ riddled, milk substitute, you end up with a teeny tiny puddle of something with absolutely no nutritional value and no bottle to even put it in."

She swallowed and took a breath, apparently catching herself before she went too far down what seemed to be a very slippery slope. Then, with a nod, "Well, you end up spread way too thin, and still empty on the inside. I guess what I'm trying to say, Blaine, is go for the whole milk, not the three drops of watered down milk substitute." She reached forward across the desk as if to take his hands, but they both knew that was a bad idea, judging by the industrial sized hand sanitizer dispenser on the corner. Instead, she pressed her palms flat and squared up her shoulders, head tilted slightly. "Don't spread yourself thin. Fill your time with empty things, and it will still be empty. You are a generous, caring person. Give of your time wisely, and it will fill with the things that really matter."

Confidant

"I kinda hoped that's what I was doing," he conceded. "That's kind of why we're here, right?"

Leader

Sam picked that moment to show up in the doorway, his face still a little red from his lunchtime weightlifting session. "You wanted to see me?" Then, to Blaine, "What are you doing here?"

Miss Pillsbury was right. Lucky for Blaine, his friends were almost as screwed up as he was. Slightly hypocritical advice and strategically distributed prescription anxiety medication aside, it was nice to be needed.

Friend

-#-

"Finn, I gotta thank you again for what you said about Sam on that video." Blaine wiped his hand on an oil rag before clapping the shoulder of Finn's Hummel Tires and Lube coveralls. "It really meant a lot to him."

"Nah, Dude," Finn dismissed, "Any one of us could have said those things to his face. What meant a lot was you caring enough to know he needed to hear it and then making sure he did. That's a real friend, right there."

Something blossomed in Blaine's chest that was dangerously close to pride. He shut that down immediately. Pride led to confidence, which led to overconfidence, which caused him to let his guard down and the next thing he knew he'd be saying and doing things for which he'd never be able to forgive himself. "Anyone would've done the same."

He shrugged his own coveralls a little higher up his shoulders. Even though he had his own, specially sized, and no longer had to roll up the sleeves to hold a wrench, the habit lingered from his early days of borrowing from the rack in the back. Besides, nothing really seemed to fit the same these days. "Now, everyone else has gone home for the night. Where's this big surprise you've been buzzing about all day?"

Blaine thought Finn's face was literally about to split in two. Was that a squee? No, really. Did guys...did _straight_ guys make that noise?

Finn looked around hastily to make sure there really was no one else around and then went so far as to pull down the shutter over the front window and turn the sign on the door to 'Closed, Please Come Again' before tiptoeing like a spy from a Pink Panther cartoon into the Parts Crib. He was in there long enough for Blaine to consider sending a search party when he finally emerged rolling a...

"Isn't that Puck's motorcycle?"

Still beaming, Finn shook his head. "No, it _was_ Puck's motorcycle. Now it's mine." When Blaine didn't quite know what to say, but instead stood there with one hand at the back of his neck, the other supporting the attached elbow, Finn explained. "Dude, it's awesome and practical. Now that I'm officially a college student, this thing will save me a ton of money on gas driving back and forth between the shop and school. Puck needed a few bucks to cover his failed business venture from his little stint in L.A., you know when he realized California income tax was way more than he had stashed, and I have money saved up from working here... It's a win for everyone. Plus, it's a total chick magnet."

Blaine didn't want to ruin Finn's excitement, but a part of him wondered how a pair of feet that couldn't consistently manage a step-ball-change would be able to simultaneously coordinate a thumb clutch with foot pedals. And did they even make helmets that size?

"Uh, congrats, I guess. I, um, I didn't even know you rode."

"Well," Finn made sure the kickstand was down before shoving his hands into his pockets, a little sheepish. "I don't... really, not yet, but Lima University is a total suitcase school, so all the parking lots are empty on the weekends. Puck's going to teach me just as soon as the last of the ice melts."

"And Burt and Carole are on board with this?"

Finn's face did that sideways slide it did when he knew he wasn't exactly in the right about something, half Elvis Presley and half hobo clown. "They don't exactly know. I mean, after the whole, 'hey Mom, I shot myself in the leg,' fiasco, I've been kind of avoiding that conversation."

"I kinda figured," Blaine sniggered, shaking his head. "Then I'm sure you haven't mentioned it to Kurt either, because I know he'd have something to say about this."

Finn's face twisted into mock horror, a smile still pulling at the corners despite himself. It really was no surprise Finn didn't get into the Actor's Studio. He couldn't pull off anything but completely genuine. It really was too bad for him that there weren't a million directors out there looking to cast a Finn Hudson character, because Blaine couldn't think of a single story that didn't need one. "Are you kidding? Kurt thinks driving with the windows down will cause you to get saggy jowls and wrinkles. Plus, he already thinks I took too many hits as quarterback." He stilled in his swaying, face serious. "Come on, dude, you're not going to try to talk me out of this, are you? This is the first thing I've done in a long time that I just wanted to do for myself without having to worry about who was going to get upset and try to change my mind."

He didn't have to say that it was the first time in four years he hadn't been worried about what Rachel, in particular, would say.

"I thought you, of all people would totally get that," Finn concluded.

Of course Blaine got that. Now more than ever. Only it had taken him a complicated diagnosis and months of therapy to convince himself he didn't need everyone's approval. Apparently a painful break up had the same effect on Finn. Blaine didn't think he'd prefer that route over his own, but he knew for a fact that motorcycle cost a lot less than the thousands _his_ parents were spending on doctors and therapists that they refused to discuss.

"Yeah, Finn, I do, I totally get that." He wrapped his arm around Finn's shoulder and punched his nearest arm lightly. "Good for you doing something for yourself. Ah...I'm sure you thought this through, logically and rationally, and that you... somehow... arrived at the conclusion that this was what you needed to do for you. In which case, who would I be to steal your thunder?"

Finn visibly relaxed.

"But you will tell your mom and Burt just as soon as they get back this weekend, and you will have a respectable motorcycle specialist check it over and make sure that it's safe and that it's going to fit you."

"Wait, there's different sizes?"

"Finn, have you even sat on that thing? I'm pretty sure your knees will be on the handlebars."

Face falling, it was clear Blaine had managed to steal some of Finn's thunder despite his resolution to do no such thing. "Crap. I didn't even think about that." He shrugged away from Blaine, his hands clenched into fists. "Dammit."

"C'mon. If you want this, it can still work."

"No, why is it I can't even do something just for fun without totally screwing it up?"

"Look, Cooper went through a motorcycle phase in high school, so I know there are ways they can adjust this bike to fit you. I want you to have fun and just stay safe out there, because both my dads are either out of the state or out of the country, Kurt's in New York, and my other brother's all the way in L.A. right now. I kinda need some of my family members to stick around for a while."

Finn blushed then, a big stupid grin flashing across his face. "Wait, you think of me as a brother? Really?"

Blaine clapped his back. "Of course I do. No one else could piss me off one minute and then save the entire day the next like a brother. And hey, let's not forget you saved my life once. I think in some cultures that means we share some kind of a soul bond or something. I mean, not like the one Kurt and I share, of course," he clarified, drawing his hand back suddenly.

"No, no, of course not," Finn agreed, still grinning like a loon before stooping down and giving him a big gorilla armed bear hug. "And you just gave me the best idea." With a clap of his hands, he reached over Blaine's head for his jacket.

"Do I dare ask?"

"Sure," Finn agreed. "I gotta hunt down Puck and see if he still has the sidecar for this thing, because once it warms up, you and I are totally road tripping to New York for a bros weekend with Kurt."

"It's a date," Blaine grinned, grabbing his own jacket, even though he really had no intention of ever setting foot in a motorcycle sidecar.

"But none of that broga crap," Finn clarified.

"Yeah, no. I don't think Kurt or I would survive that ordeal."

"Ask Rachel how she broke her nose."

Blaine rolled his eyes before sliding out the door behind Finn. The shop bell rung behind them as the door swung shut, and Blaine secretly hoped that really meant an angel got its wings, because Finn's guardian angel was about to get one hell of a workout.

-#-

Things actually started to slot together again once the whole calendar photo shoot was out of the way. Blaine wasn't even totally unhappy with how his own photos turned out. Thank God for cummerbunds and Photoshop. He was, however, just a little uncomfortable with the actual calendar signing Tina made them sit through. He'd brought a stack of homework with him to the event, expecting to have plenty of free time since, as Kitty had so eloquently pointed out, the Men of McKinley calendar was specifically marketed to the Women of McKinley.

It wasn't like a year book photo where a signature says, 'hey, I want to remember the people I walked these halls with, even if they were the best-worst days of my life, and we'll probably never see each other again in any meaningful context.' Someone asking for your calendar signature was as good as saying, 'hey, I'm gonna ogle you for a whole month. Please give your consent.'" Okay, maybe it only meant that in Blaine's head, but he still hadn't really expected many requests for _his_ signature.

He was surprised.

"So, wait, you actually had guys in your line?" Kurt's voice bubbled, his enthusiasm clearly transcribed through the somewhat iffy connection.

"Yeah," Blaine chuckled. "I couldn't believe it. I mean, I sort of half expected to just sign for everyone in the Glee club and maybe Becky Jackson, who was the only Cheerio who'd dare go against Sue's Glee club trade embargo. And while Becky did bring me a stack of about ten calendars to sign, presumably for other Cheerios, follow by a kind of disturbing number of skanks and girls from my art class, I did have some guys. They were all younger and kind of adorably shy about it, but yeah. I knew you'd love that."

"Well, I don't know if I love the idea of adorably shy younger men lining up to ogle my boyfriend..." Kurt teased, but Blaine could definitely hear the titter in his voice that said he was tickled to know there was a budding contingent of the out and the proud coming up and that they may or may not have given them the inspiration or the opportunity to do so.

"If it makes you feel any better, more than one of them asked about you. It seems you've got something of a fan club at both Lima West and Shawnee middle schools. And the What Would Kurt Hummel Wear Fashion Vlog has its own subscribers-only discount that's good at all local Gap and Rue21 stores."

Blaine swore he could hear Kurt batting his eyes and primping his hair in mock conceit. "Mmm, yes it's probably best they stick to the chain stores. Not just anyone can pull off a Kurt Hummel original, after all." He couldn't keep up the pretense even over the phone and ended up squeaking out an exclamation of delight, followed by the gleeful sound of hands clapping ecstatically together. Finally, he took a breath and let it out with a sigh. "Wow, I can't believe you got all that from a calendar signing. Honestly, though, you're the first gay Student Council President in the history of McKinley high. You must've had quite a few fans of your own there, too."

Blaine shrugged, stapling both copies of his English Lit. essay, each with one staple at a perfect forty-five degree angle in the top left corner and putting them in the folder he had open across his lap. "Yeah, there were a few. It's kind of humbling, really, knowing there are people actually looking up to me. I wonder what they'd say if they knew about my Luke Skywalker pajamas or that I know all the words to all the songs from High School Musical."

"Or that I'm Team Jacob, all the way," Kurt mused. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he said, "But come on, those things just make us more accessible, don't you think? And they bring us joy, which should be non-negotiable. You have to live for yourself, too, not just for a cause."

Blaine swallowed hard and settled back into his pillows, wishing he had more than just his phone and the sound of Kurt's voice to curl into. "I love you."

"And you bring me joy." They both sat in silence, lingering in the embrace of the words as they wrapped around them. Somewhere in the background Rachel informed Kurt that dinner would be ready in fifteen minutes, and they regretfully shrugged out of the moment. "Anyway, I'm glad the calendar thing turned out okay. I know you were a little worried about it."

Worried. Not obsessed, fixated, anxious, or panicking, so he must've done a good job disguising just how much he hadn't wanted to do the calendar. He might have implied that he was worried about people being able to see his ICD scar. He snuggled deeper into his pillows, suddenly heavy as a balloon full of lead. "Yeah, I'm actually glad I opted not to have them retouch the photos. I had a lot of questions about the ICD, and some of the techies even asked to see how I interrogate it and made some really helpful suggestions about the app that I know the developers are going to love."

"Hmm, a regular man of the hour."

"It must be all the time I spend with you," Blaine speculated, giving in to the fatigue of the day and curling his arms over his chest, letting the pillow keep the phone up to his ear, "I can't help but pull focus."

"Oh, honey, you must be exhausted. From here, it sounds like you can hardly keep your eyes open. Maybe I should let you go."

"No," Blaine protested. "I guess I hadn't realized how much I was stressing over the whole thing, well, that and this ridiculous Lit. essay that counts for twenty percent of my final grade. Now that they're both finished, I can finally relax. That, and my dinner's kind of sitting like a brick for some reason. You don't have to hang up."

"My own dinner's almost ready, anyway. I'm not sure what Rachel's making, but the smoke detector hasn't gone off yet, so I probably have a few more minutes. What did you eat that's so heavy?"

Blaine started to shrug, but the movement caused the phone to slip, and he had to reposition everything again. "Nothing really. Mom had to work late, so I just raided the fridge –some yogurt and a banana, I think." He didn't think. He knew. One single serve cup of yogurt and one half a banana. Even that had felt like too much. "I think just not being able to move around as much as I used to makes my stomach kind of sluggish these days. I can't wait until the doctor clears me to start yoga again."

"Or maybe you run yourself ragged and being tired makes you sluggish, especially if that's all you're eating. Yogurt and a banana is a snack, Blaine, not a meal."

"Well, Mom practically lays out a buffet for breakfast these days, so I'll make up for it then." He felt his eyes starting to slide shut and popped them open again with a start, his train of thought having already jumped the track the way everything shifted in that space between waking and sleeping. He sucked in a breath, scrubbing a palm over his face. "Mmm, only a couple of weeks until Mr. Schue's wedding," he reminded with a dreamy lilt in his voice. "I can't wait to see you."

"I already booked the room." Kurt's voice raised half a step and dropped at least that much in volume, a wistful promise of things to come.

"And I... found the perfect song for us to sing at the reception." He blinked blearily, a smile on his otherwise lax face. "I just can't remember what it is right this second," he yawned.

"Do you want me to sing you sleep?" Kurt offered.

"Would you?"

( **Sweet Dreams** , Air Supply)

 _This is the time when you need a friend_

 _You just need someone near_

 _I'm not looking forward to the night_

 _I'll spend thinking of you when you're not here_

Even on the brink of sleep, Blaine couldn't hold back the huff he laughed into his pillowcase. "Air Supply. Oh my God, I love you."

"Shh, just hold that thought, because we're totally signing up for that Collaborative Writing class that NYADA offers over the summer through its extension program. The Klaine Air Supply Musical is definitely happening." A beat, then he said, "And I love you, too. Now go to sleep."

 _Close your eyes_

 _I want to ride the skies in my sweet dreams_

 _Close your eyes_

 _I want to see you tonight in my sweet dreams_

Blaine did as he was told.

-#-

"Honey! I'm running a little late, and I need to leave for the airport in an hour. Can you find your own dinner this evening?"

"I'm already on it, Mom," Blaine called down the hallway.

Blaine eyeballed his options warily. Nothing in the cupboard, the freezer, or the refrigerator looked even remotely appetizing. He contemplated skipping dinner altogether. With Diva week in full swing, he couldn't afford to be weighed down, and if he was honest, he was pretty sure he was out of the running for the dinner at Breadstix after what he felt was a substandard rendition of a Freddie Mercury standard. Between having to tone down the choreography to basically air guitar and step-touch with gusto, he'd left out the trust fall at the end after taking one look at the number of steps it was going to take to get to the back of the choir room and realizing he just couldn't make it in the four count he had planned. He just didn't have the energy.

He had a feeling he was coming down with a cold or something. Run down? Check. Constant nagging headache? Check. Heavy, bloated feeling in his stomach like he'd been snacking all day, even though he'd barely touched his lunch? Check. Whatever it was, it was really kicking his ass.

In other words, another day in the life.

But he needed to eat something in order to take his medication, and with Tina on her way over to discuss her own contribution to Diva week, he didn't have time to be choosy. As it was, he still had half his pill bottles lined up on the counter and one of the five varieties of diet shake his mother practically lived on in his hand when the doorbell gonged, nearly making him choke. They really needed to change the volume on that thing. If no one was home, no one was home. Making the doorbell audible to the next door neighbors was not going to get anyone to answer.

He let Tina in, and ushered her through the kitchen in order to pick up his laptop from the family room. "Sorry, Taytay, I'm running a little behind. You caught me in the middle of dinner."

Tina eyed the countertop with a grimace. "Blaine, that is not dinner. And what's with the diet shake? You definitely do not need to be on a diet."

Blaine shrugged, picking up the can and the last few pills he'd yet to choke down, then finishing them both off. "I only had five minutes, and it's a meal replacement, not a diet. Beggars can't be choosers."

"Well, beg no more," Tina grinned. Her voice was bubbly, smile bright as she handed Blaine a Tupperware container. "After you mentioned feeling like you might be coming down with something this afternoon, I put together this little coldbuster kit for you." She frowned at the array of pill bottles. "I probably should've asked about drug interactions before I put that cold medicine in here, but you can have the Vitamin C and my Chinese Chicken soup right now." She patted his cheek. "I'll wait for you to heat it up."

"Aww, that's so sweet of you, but how do you know it's a cold?" He snapped the caps back onto his prescription bottles and stashed them in the cupboard.

"You were making that little throat clearing noise during Glee. I thought maybe your sinuses were draining." She shrugged, chin scrunched, "And even if it's not, I figured Vitamin C and chicken soup would still help."

The can in his hand crumpled under the sudden pressure of his grip tightening. He tossed it in the trash without making eye contact, his hand subconsciously going to his chest.

"Blaine? You okay? I didn't overstep, did I?"

Forcing a reassuring smile, he turned back around and took the container from Tina, clasping one of her hands in his and holding it briefly. "No, no, not at all," he soothed. "I'm just... really touched that you noticed."

"Of course, I did, silly. You're my boo."

"Well, thank you," he said, squeezing her hand once before letting it drop. "Now, why don't you go on ahead, grab my laptop off the coffee table and head on up to my room. I will just... heat this up and follow you in five. Can I bring you anything? Soda, maybe?"

She pinched his cheek. "Ever the gentleman, Mr. Blaine Anderson. Thank you. I would love a diet soda, if you have one. Otherwise sparkling water."

Eyes wide, because something was a little off about Tina that he couldn't quite put his finger on, Blaine grinned and pointed, his inner Cooper worming its way out. "One diet soda over ice coming right up."

"Thanks, Blainey-days." Tina spun and bounced out of the room as Blaine busied himself finding a bowl for the soup he had no intention of eating. He waited until he heard her making her way up the stairs before he dragged his messenger bag out from under the counter, where he'd dropped it when he got home, and fumbled his telemetry wand out of the front pocket. He normally only interrogated his ICD right before bed but kept the wand on hand at all times for emergencies. He felt fine now, (well, at least as fine as he'd felt all day, which was kind of run down and tired but not dangerously so) but considered it an emergency that Tina had noticed his symptoms earlier when he hadn't. God, just the thought... if he'd had an episode at school... or received a shock. There was no favorable outcome to any of those prospective scenarios.

His hands were visibly shaking as he held the wand over his chest, his eyes shut tightly as he waited for the familiar beeping to finish. When it did, he swallowed hard and noticed through lowered lashes that the display was showing yellow. One episode of sustained vtach lasting ten minutes and resolved with a pacing charge. He bit the inside of his lip, letting his head sag.

Resolved.

He was fine now. The ICD did exactly what it was supposed to, just like the last time when he'd gotten himself so worked up and scared everyone half to death, himself slightly more than halfway. No need to panic now.

In. Out. In. Out.

Uploaded the data to his phone. Sent a text to his doctor as prompted. One more data point. That was all good. The more you know, right?

That was just the problem, though. He hadn't known, and he was ninety percent sure he didn't want to know. Not ever.

As the microwave toned to let him know his soup was ready, Blaine opened the cupboard door he'd only just closed minutes ago and took out the one prescription bottle he hadn't already taken a dose from, washed that pill down with a few swallows of Tina's chicken soup and Vitamin C. Taking a few extra deep breaths that inflated his entire torso, chasing away all the ghosts of panic that cowered behind his rib bones, he fixed his face in his most dapper expression and headed up the stairs, Tina's diet soda and a glass of water balanced on a tray in front of him.

He walked in on her looking at the pictures of himself and Kurt on his nightstand instead of perusing the list of potential songs he'd come up with to bring out her inner diva. He was too fixated on making sure his hands didn't shake hard enough to clink the ice in the glass to be embarrassed by the fact that his nightstand was practically a shrine to Kurt Hummel. At least she hadn't apparently gone looking for any pens in the drawers. The way she turned around a little too quickly when he cleared his throat suggested she hadn't been entirely innocent in her perusal, but he had more important things to worry about, like how the chicken soup, the diet shake, and the handful of pills he had in his stomach were sloshing around in protest, kicked up by the surge of panic he'd swallowed down on top of it all. He suddenly felt overly full and imagined his gut to be the lava chamber of a homemade volcano just percolating beneath the surface as the pressure built toward eruption. That had been happening a lot lately. Maybe he was lactose intolerant?

"Done eating already?" Tina asked.

Blaine set the tray down on his desk and flopped down beside her on his bed. "Don't get me wrong. The soup is delicious, Queen T, but I'm just not all that hungry."

"I'm sorry, B. Do you want me to go? You can just email the song list, and I can work out a number on my own if you're not feeling well."

"No, n-no, no," he protested. "I will not rest until you see yourself for the amazing diva that I know you are, Miss Tina Cohen-Chang. Now, open the laptop and get ready to silence the haters." He scooted himself up to the head of the bed and flopped against his pillows, then gestured for her to follow, splaying his arm out in invitation for her slide up beside him. "Just bring it up here so I can let my stomach settle a little."

She didn't hesitate and flopped down beside him, the laptop open on her stomach where they could both see it. "Aretha? Really? Do you think I could pull that off?"

"Of course I do. I've seen videos of you pulling off Gaga and Florence and the Machine. You own that stage when you want to. You can't let Santana, or Marley, or anyone else steal your thunder. There is no question in my mind that you are 100% diva. You just have to own it in here." He punctuated by poking his index finger into the shoulder she had butted against his.

"Easy for you to say," Tina pouted, "Finn would never consider bringing in Kurt to show _you_ up."

"T, you know he didn't ask Santana to perform in order to upstage you. She was in town and wanted to drop in but didn't want to look like an extra verse of Springsteen's 'Glory Days,' so Finn asked her to perform so it would look like she was doing him a favor. I don't even think she was in the actual competition."

"Yeah, well it didn't work. We all know she was just there to check up on Brittany. Sam told me she tried to run him off right after practice."

"Really, after she practically made out with her new college girlfriend right there in front of everyone? How reality T.V. can you get?"

"Oh, please. That's not even the biggest scene we've ever had in that choir room. You should have been here when Santana proclaimed her profound love for Karofsky. The second hand embarrassment was so thick, even I had to look away. And when Finn found out that Puck was the father of Quinn's baby and confronted them during Glee practice..."

They both peered up over the laptop in response to a knock on the bedroom door.

"Come in!" Blaine was a little surprised he hadn't heard his mother's footsteps on the stairs, but he knew her knock.

"Blaine, honey, someone's parked in front of..." Pam stopped abruptly. "Oh, hi, Tina. I didn't recognize your car. Did you get a new one?"

"Hi, Mrs. Anderson. My dad's driving my car today. He wanted to take it in for a tune-up and let me take his. Am I in your spot? It was snowing, and I didn't want to park on the street. I can go move it."

"Oh, no, don't get up. You two look too cozy. I can move it if you have the keys? I just need to get out of the garage."

"I better do it," Tina dismissed. "My dad is very protective."

His mom nodded as Tina slid out from under the laptop and dropped her feet to the floor. "Does this belong to you?" she asked, offering the Tupperware container full of cold medicine and Vitamin C. "It was sitting on the counter. I didn't recognize it, and I know how attached people can get to their Tupperware."

Tina smiled. "That's the coldbuster kit I put together for Blaine. He wasn't feeling well earlier, so I made it up before I came over. I'm not worried about the container. I trust Blaine to bring it back."

Blaine recognized the concerned shadow that crossed his mother's face even though she tried to keep her smile in place for Tina. "That's so sweet of you, dear, and thoughtful, too," then to Blaine she said, "I didn't know you weren't feeling well, sweetheart?"

Tina jumped in, probably eager to show that Blaine was in good hands. "Yes, he's been looking kind of run down lately. He hardly ate anything at lunch today, minced the choreography on his diva number, and kept clearing his throat like his sinuses were draining." Blaine opened his mouth to protest and started to sit up, but Tina pointed her finger at him and added, "And now he's complaining about his stomach, too." She crossed her arms, obviously proud of herself.

"Honey, is that true?" His mom sat down on the bed next to him and laid her hand on his cheek. "You look a little flushed, but don't feel warm. How long have you felt like this?"

Blaine shrugged, and turned his face away, sure that the 'flush' she'd noticed was embarrassment at having his mother fawn all over him in front of a friend. "I've just been really busy lately. I feel fine."

She didn't look convinced. "And your... throat?" She dropped her chin and lifted her eyebrows as she asked, indicating that she suspected his throat wasn't really the problem at all.

"Um... resolved," Blaine responded, mirroring her expression as he chose his answer wisely.

She patted his arm. "Well, that's good, I suppose." She paused thoughtfully. "Honey, do you need me to stay home? It won't hurt to miss this one conference. Two other people from my office will be there, anyway."

Blaine shook his head. "No, Mama, you go. I'm fine. It's just a cold, and with any luck, Tina's chicken soup will kick in, and I'll be fine by the time you catch your connecting flight in Detroit."

Her mouth straightened, lips tight as she considered her options.

"I've been alone a lot longer than a day before, Mama."

"And I hate that we let that become our definition of normal, Blaine. I really want to make up for letting myself get swept away from you so often." She smoothed the hair around his ear with her thumb. "You're almost graduated and planning to move to New York. Pretty soon I'll have no choice but to be away from you. Maybe I should stay and make the most..."

"Or maybe you should go so you still have a job to go to when you need a distraction from your Empty Nest syndrome."

Her bottom lip bunched in, chin curling up as she gave a sad smile then leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "You always have been such a giver," then she sat back with a sigh. "But you're right. My boss would have my head on a platter if I let myself be upstaged by the interns, of all people." She let her shoulders sag, deflated. "I'll make it up to you, I promise. But..." she took his chin between her fingers and turned his head as if to examine his complexion again, "we are not letting this slide. You have your six week post-surgery appointment coming up on Friday. We'll have to be sure to mention that when we go in, right?"

"Already done." Blaine held up his phone to indicate he'd sent the data from his ICD interrogation.

"Okay." She stood, smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt as she did so, "Until then, I guess we have Tina to thank for making sure you take care of yourself."

Tina grinned, eyes crinkling with pride. "Well, we divas have to stick together." She grabbed her keys. "Let me go move my car for you Mrs. Anderson. I forgot I also brought a jar of vap-o-rub. It's on the console. I'll bring it back up with me, just in case." To Blaine she added, "I'll be back in five minutes, and we can finish deciding on a song."

He nodded as she scampered out of the room, caught his mom eyeing him warily, reluctant to follow. "It's okay, Mama. I'm fine. My stomach's just a little sloshy. I'm thinking about giving up dairy."

She brushed her hand over his forehead and down his cheek, expression still skeptical, but exhaled in resignation. "Well, alright, then. But we are going to bring this up at your appointment. I'm not used to seeing you lying down so early in the evening." She squeezed his calf before turning to leave. "This is just a day conference. I'll be back this time tomorrow. You have all the numbers where you can reach me. I also left the numbers for the Schuesters and that awful cheerleading coach of yours in case you need an adult. Anything you need, don't be afraid to call."

"Orrrr, I could just get it myself," Blaine teased. "I'm not five, anymore. I can brush my own teeth and reach the sink without a stool even."

"Just don't let Tina keep you awake half the night gossiping," she smirked. "Finish your assignment and then get some sleep."

"I will, Mama."

"Good night, baby."

"Good night."

Blaine kept a smile on his face as he followed her out the door with his gaze, then turned back to his laptop, surprised at how heavy his eyelids had gotten in just the last few minutes. When the words started to run together on the screen, he scrubbed a hand over his face and forced back a yawn. He had just begun to wonder whether Tina had gotten lost when he blinked a little too slowly and fell asleep.

-#-

Tina waved to Mrs. Anderson as she backed her car out of the garage and headed down the street, then pulled back into the driveway before she could get a ticket for breaking the snow ordinance, even though she knew the plows didn't usually come out until well after midnight. It wasn't even snowing that hard, so maybe there'd just be sand trucks. Either way, the police would not hesitate to fine her for disrupting the snow removal process. She opened the door and was just about to step out when she remembered the jar of vap-o-rub and scrounged it out of the console before locking up the car accompanied by the familiar beep of the horn.

As she kicked off her boots in the foyer for the second time that evening, she yelled up the stairs. "I'll be up in a minute! I just want to grab a glass of water. Can I grab you anything?" She waited a few seconds. "Blaine?" When there was still no answer she padded on her stocking feet into the kitchen and filled a glass at the ice dispenser before getting water from the filtered tap. Turning around, she spied Blaine's telemetry wand on the counter, and remembering that he usually checked it before bed, she grabbed that, too.

It was a bit of a juggle to open the door with her hands now full, (and why hadn't she thought to use a tray like Blaine had) but when Blaine didn't answer her hesitant, "Knock! Knock!" she managed without spilling, only to find Blaine sound asleep where she'd left him, the laptop screen already gone to black. She scrunched her chin and tilted her head. "Aww. Poor baby."

That put her in the odd predicament of wondering whether it was more polite to just leave without disturbing him and let him wake up later to an empty house or to wake him up and tell him she was leaving so he could sleep. And there was still the issue of not having picked a song. She checked her phone quickly and noted that Blaine hadn't emailed the list to her, either. Out of curiosity, she reached across Blaine and slid her finger over the mousepad. When the laptop flickered on to the page she'd been looking at earlier without prompting for a password, she sighed in relief. Frowning, she took another glance at Blaine who'd wrapped his arms around himself and started to snore softly, then shrugged. Setting her things down on the nightstand, she scooched up on the bed beside him and started scrolling through the list. Blaine wouldn't want her to leave without a song, and in the meantime, maybe he'd wake up from his nap and save her having to wake him.

And, well, who was she kidding? This was the closest she was ever going to get to satisfying her admittedly ridiculous and impossible Blaine Anderson crush. In fact, she was a little glad he was asleep. If Mrs. Anderson hadn't knocked when she had, there's a fairly good chance Tina would have said something really embarrassing that she'd never have been able to take back and would probably have compromised her current friendship with Blaine forever.

It had just been so hard since she and Mike broke up. Really, they hadn't even looked at anyone else in two years—two blissful years of not having to worry about who she was taking to the next school dance or singing a duet with on Valentine's day. Suddenly, that was over, and now, not only was she single, but pretty much anyone else she'd ever considered was in a relationship with someone that wasn't her.

So, maybe she'd considered Blaine in a fit of desperation and convinced herself that the whole 'taking a break' thing that he and Kurt had been doing for the last six months was really about Blaine questioning his sexuality and not about taking care of himself, like he'd told everyone else. And maybe, when she considered that he really might be available for some bicurious experimentation, she'd allowed herself to spend a little too much time admiring his amazing eyes (what color even was that? Amber?) with their ridiculously long lashes, and the way his biceps stretched the sleeves of his polos where they circled his arm at just the right length. Possibly she'd wondered (okay fantasized) about what his stubbly jaw would feel like if/when she ever got to kiss it.

And if she didn't get a grip pretty soon, she was going to do something really stupid that may or may not involve that little curl of hair around his ear or the little bit of throat exposed above his collar where she could see his pulse jumping.

God, his snoring was so adorable. She bet Kurt was the only other one who knew the cute little noises he made in sleep. She bet Kurt got to hear it all the time...

The words on the screen started to blur as her eyes welled up. She was so stupid. When blinking didn't stem the flow of tears, she squinted as tightly as she could, breath hiccupping, and pushed the laptop to the side before sliding down to rest her forehead on his shoulder. If she could just keep her eyes shut and breathe in his smell for a few minutes, maybe she could get her fill and move on. Maybe.

Or maybe she could fall asleep and dream. Just for a little while longer.

-#-

She had no idea how long she'd been asleep when she blinked into waking. At first, she squinted the room into focus and tried to get her faculties under control while her GPS locked onto her current location. A soft mumble beside her, and she jerked to full awareness. Blaine's room. With Blaine. Who was sleeping. Sleeping with Blaine. Oh crap.

Stiffening abruptly, she slid to the floor, started frantically looking around the room for anything of hers that she needed to take with her on her self-imposed walk of shame. She'd get to her car and call Blaine to let him know she was heading home, and they'd never speak of how that little puddle of her...tears, (she was going with tears, because she most definitely did not drool) got on his shoulder. She was halfway to the door before she spared a final forlorn glance over her shoulder. Then stopped.

Something was different.

Wrong.

Something was wrong.

It took her a few moments of silent contemplation to pick up on what had changed –the snoring.

Blaine's cute, snuffling little snores had become more raspy and grating, a lot more like stifled coughs, and there was a pinched quality to his features that hadn't been there earlier. His throat worked reflexively, nostrils flaring slightly, and his head bobbed up and down against his pillow as if he was trying to shake something off.

Tina frowned. Poor thing. His cold must have been getting worse, maybe moving into his chest. It was too bad he was asleep, because her grandma really swore by that vap-o-rub stuff. She bit her lip. Well, she did still have the mentholated rub, and he did seem like he could really use it. He wouldn't mind, would he?

Who was to say he even had to know?

She dropped her bookbag and purse to the floor in front of the door and made her way to the nightstand, still chewing at her lower lip. Taking the lid off the jar of vap-o-rub, she swirled one finger around the inside of the container and reached forward to work at the buttons of his shirt with her other nine fingers, resisting the urge to straddle him for a better angle. That would just be creepy.

Chin trembling, she'd almost undone one button of Blaine's shirt when his eyes flew open. Scrambling, he lurched up, folding over his knees as his feet slid to the floor, cough-pant-coughing as his hand fisted in the front of his shirt. After a second of horrifying stillness he took a giant whooping breath and... sobbed.

"Blaine?"

Tina caught him as he stood up then crumpled down, his knees giving out on him. She held on, the jar of vap-o-rub dropping to the floor when her fingers twined in the back of his cardigan to keep him from falling. For a second, he let her hold him up, his forehead pressed into her shoulder as he cried, heaving so hard that his entire body shook, and dragged them both down to the carpet.

She didn't know what to say, just let him cling and cry it out while clarity eluded them both. After a few seconds, she noticed a subtle change in the way he lurched in her arms, a more strangled whine in his throat, and then he was throwing her off, sending her sprawling backward as he made a few attempts at standing then gave up and speed crawled into the bathroom.

He didn't have time to shut the door, and she grimaced in sympathy as the sound of his retching splintered the ominous silence of the room like a tree trunk cracking in the absence of a breeze. It went on and on until he was just sobbing again, and she ventured a tenuous peek through the doorway to find him sprawled across the commode, head pillowed against his shoulder, stringers of saliva and mucus trailing off his chin. The phone in his hand was already glowing with an outgoing call as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve before placing it to his ear, waiting with glassy, red-rimmed eyes for someone to answer.

His face crumpled further as the call was picked up. "Mama!" he cried. "Mama, I got shocked!"

-TBC


	20. Snowblind

Sue peeked into the nursery, making sure that Robin was still sound asleep in her new crib. She'd only just moved out of her bassinet over the weekend, and Sue was still wont to check on her more often, victim to the anxiety all new mothers (not just those in their, late, late thirties) faced. Satisfied that her daughter was sleeping soundly, she shut the door and went across the hall to her own room just long enough to drop her robe on the end of the bed and grab the baby monitor off the nightstand before heading down the hall. She picked up the keys to her Le Car, bypassing those for her newly purchased Mom Mobile. The sensible sedan Robin's car seat stayed fastened in had a commendable propensity for keeping all four tires on the road, a feat the Le Car never quite mastered.

"Thanks again, Grace," she said, taking her coat from its hook by the door and passing off the baby monitor to her live in nanny. "I know this is your night off. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency."

"I don't mind, really," Grace dismissed, her long, dark hair loose from its normal single braid due to having been interrupted in the middle of preparing for bed. "I'm sure she'll be asleep for another few hours, anyway. Just drive safely. It must be some emergency to have you going out in this weather."

Sue cast a wary glance toward the window. The snow pelting the glass had picked up considerably in its intensity in the last hour or so, and a drift was already forming on the outside pane. It was coming down in clumps large enough to cast shadow puppets on the far wall where they crossed the beam of the streetlight. Good thing she'd had those custom snow chains installed on the Le Car, even though it had been like pulling teeth finding anyone on the Le Car forums that knew where to put the label. (She'd gone with the consensus and fixed the Le Tire Chain label underneath the one for Le Hubcap.) Front wheel drive could be tricky on anything with a coefficient of friction lower than that of gravel.

"It is." Most days she would've dismissed a frantic phone call from a high school student as an ill-advised prank or a ridiculous ploy for attention, most definitely the latter coming from Tina Cohen-Chang, but there'd been something in the voice on the other end of the line. "One of my kids is having a medical crisis, and his parents can't be reached. Someone needs to go check on him. Hopefully, I won't be long."

"Take your time," Grace said with a wan smile. "Robin's no trouble at all."

Sue gave a curt nod, fixing the collar on her coat. "I appreciate it. I'll make sure your paycheck reflects that you're at least as useful as the most highly skilled french fry basket dumper in the tri-county area." Grace gave her a knowing smirk, and Sue was out the door before she could hear what she was sure would've been a creatively scathing comeback. As much as she enjoyed the comfortable banter and trading of quips she shared with her nanny, now was not the time.

By the time she parked in the Andersons' driveway, the actual snow had let up some, but the wind had picked up considerably, blowing what had already fallen into swirling demons that chased their own tails across the road before piling into sand bar drifts that rocked the Le Car on its unstable chassis. If this kid's mom really was stuck in Detroit, Sue didn't see her getting a flight back into Columbus any time soon, let alone making the hour long drive to Lima. She sincerely hoped this wasn't a real emergency.

That hope died a short, painful death, heralded by the banshee wail of one Ms. Tina Cohen-Chang who had the door open before Sue could even knock.

"Coach Sylvester! Coach Sylvester! Thank God you're here!" The day (or night) any one of those glee kids was glad to see her must surely be the first day of the Apocalypse. Below their feet, Hell was freezing over. Either that, or this was an actual emergency and not some overly dramatic teenage angst. "Blaine tried to call his mom, but first, all he got was her voicemail, and when her plane landed, she called back right away, but she can't get back because of the storm, and she told us to call Mr. Schuester, but he and Miss Pillsbury are out of town for last minute wedding business, which is why Finn is filling in for him tomorrow, and we thought about calling Finn, but he doesn't really count as an adult, I don't think, so we called you, and..."

Sue forced a scowl and raised her hand to halt the incessant yammering. Closing her eyes, she said, "While I'm sure that some part of your hormonally challenged psyche thought it was a good idea to tell me that I was your absolute last option, and I should be flattered that you exhausted every other possibly avenue by which to spare me the trouble of trudging my way over here in this late season blizzard, I'm going to have to insist that you go home before the weather gets any worse. I'm sure your parents are worried."

Tina took a breath and let it out, probably preparing to argue, her head swaying somewhere between a nod and a shake. "But Blaine..."

"Isn't going to feel any better if you get in a wreck." And Sue wouldn't do anyone any good with a hyperactive wannabe diva buzzing around her head like a mosquito.

She deflated. "My dad _has_ been blowing up my phone," she seemed to concede.

Sue squinted, taking in Tina's swollen, reddened eyes and drooping cheeks as she kept casting nervous glances up the stairs. "Are you okay to drive?"

She paused, clearly fighting an inner war, before nodding sharply and reaching for her coat which was hung on a hook by the door.

"Is he upstairs?" Sue asked.

Tina nodded, pulling her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. "He has that thing in his chest that's supposed to stop his heart from going haywire. It shocked him while he was sleeping, and he..." she blinked rapidly, her chin quivering as her eyes glassed over, "he freaked out, but the app says he's okay. He doesn't need to go to the hospital or anything, and he already has an appointment on Friday, but," her fingers fumbled at the buttons as she closed the coat, "he already wasn't feeling well. I think he needs to sleep, but he's afraid it will happen again. He won't come out of the bathroom. He called Kurt, though. Kurt's really good at calming him down." She beckoned toward the stairs, brushing at her cheek with one woolen sleeve as she sniffled. "I-I have to get my bag and let Blaine know I'm leaving." Sue didn't miss the hesitation at the bottom step as if she needed to summon up the courage to go back in. "I'll take you up."

Blaine's room wasn't exactly what Sue expected from a teenage boy's bedroom. Rather, it smelled a lot better than any teenaged boy she could recall, but then, she mostly only encountered them in the hallways, drowning in body wash and cheap cologne, or in the locker room, where every odorous fume they were trying to camouflage with the body wash and cologne reared its ugly head only to be re-doused. She didn't get a chance to notice much more than the smell, or lack thereof, before Tina poked her head into the adjoining bathroom, drawing her attention.

"Blaine? Sweetie? Coach Sue is here. I hate to... well, my dad will kill me if I don't get his car home before they issue a storm warning. Do you need me to get anything before I go?"

Sue didn't hear an answer, but Tina nodded before saying, "Tell Kurt 'hi' from me, okay? Feel better." Tina only met her eyes for a moment, her mouth working around something she ultimately decided not to speak aloud before she ducked past Sue and out the door.

Sue lingered outside the bathroom for a few beats, not because she didn't know how to take charge of a situation by making a suitable entrance, but because something in Tina's demeanor reminded her of that Norman guy from 'Psycho' every time he addressed his mother off camera. She'd have been a lot more comfortable if she knew for certain that was her Cheerios co-captain in there and not a mummified corpse. After all, she hadn't actually heard from Blaine at all and was going entirely on the word of a girl who'd changed identities from stuttering Goth to steampunk heroine to angry, whiny diva the way Kurt Hummel changed scarves. It was entirely possible that Anderson wasn't the only one with a mental condition she needed to be concerned about.

Plus, there was the whole issue of walking in on a teenaged boy in his en-suite bathroom.

"Oh, for Pete's sake." Removing her coat and tossing it onto the bed, she pushed back the sleeves on her blue velour track/lounge suit and barged in, arms crossed over her chest. "Well isn't this just _fan_ tastic. Less than two weeks after Midwest Championships, and my co-captain is throwing himself an all-night navel gazing party when he should be brainstorming ideas for our Nationals competition."

At first, there she was met by nothing but mess. The shower curtain had been pulled down, the rod askew in the corner of the bathtub, and whatever tubes and bottles had been out for easy access were now only accessible from one's hands and knees, shampoo and body wash in unhygienically close proximity to the toilet brush. The air was thick, acrid with sweat and what was probably vomit, though, thankfully the toilet looked to have been flushed. The towels looked to have been folded when they hit the floor after having the hanging bar snapped beneath them, and beneath the clutter, there was no tell-tale grime to indicate this was an accumulation of normal boy mess. This had been a recent storm of some considerable intensity.

And in the eye of it all, one Cheerios co-captain.

She stopped short upon actually getting a look at the captain in question. Definitely not a mummifed corpse. But not much better. Scrunched down between the commode and the bathtub (nice, full bath. Sue's own en-suite only had a walk-in shower.) Blaine's hair had long since sweated free of the gel and was clinging around his ears and forehead where it wasn't whorling about in uneven waves, and the parts of his face she could see glistened with a mixture of sweat from the heat of the confined space and what looked like tears. They weren't even the good kind of tears, borne of ridicule and intense overtraining, the likes of which Sue used to self-evaluate her effectiveness as a coach and a mentor.

These were tears meant for a mother.

While she occasionally referred to her charges as 'her kids,' only one had ever awakened the protective streak she'd formerly reserved for her sister, Jeanie, and even that was something she'd never admit aloud. None of them really ever escaped her self-imposed stereotypes of spoiled, entitled, lazy, whiny and privileged enough for her to feel anything parental toward them. Well, not a parent any of them would actually want, anyway.

In the absence of her ability to be what Blaine needed, she did the next best thing.

"That's enough, Short Stuff. Unless you've got your ass planted in a sitz bath back there, wipe that snot off your face and pull yourself together. As a rule, my evenings belong to my infant daughter and her live-in caregiver. They are reserved for folding cloth diapers and trading one-liners over an irish hot cocoa. You are not even a distant twentieth place on the list of people, and I use that term loosely, that I want to spend several hours trapped in a bathroom with during a snowstorm."

She jutted her chin toward the phone he had pinched between his shoulder and ear, arms wrapped too tightly around his knees to leave room for his elbows to bend in the tight space and hold it with his hands. "I'll wait while you finish your phone sex with Porcelain. You have two minutes." She turned her attention to the medicine cabinet, not even allowing a pretense of politeness as she swung the door open, though she may have let her facade slip as soon as her back was turned and the mirror safely faced a wall. She wasn't surprised to find a thermometer inside, which she scooped up unceremoniously. She _was_ surprised that it was one of the old-fashioned glass ones. She thought everyone had gone digital eons ago. It served the lazy human nature best, after all. Then again, the kid was a music theater geek, or something. The thermometer was likely a prop for all she knew.

Slamming the cabinet door shut once more, she noted in the mirrored reflection that Blaine had raised himself off the floor and was seated on the edge of the tub, scrubbing at his eyes and cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt while he finished his phone conversation. She didn't know exactly what the gadget on the side of the sink was, but she figured it must be important, since he had it nearby, and took that, too, shoving it down into the front pocket of her track jacket before striding out of the room to wait.

Blaine slunk out of the bathroom while Sue was gazing at her own reflection in his bedroom window, wondering just how it was she managed to find herself in such a predicament, completely out of sorts as to what exactly she was supposed to be saying or doing while that little, niggling protective streak of hers kept trying to peck, peck, peck its way out through her carefully constructed shell.

"I-I'm sorry," Ms. Sylvester, he stammered, fidgeting with his phone even though the screen was dark.

"Don't be ridiculous," she scowled. "Did you give yourself a congenital heart condition?"

"N-no..."

"And were you doing something foolish like jumping on the bed and singing showtunes that would knowingly exacerbate that condition?"

"No, I was asleep."

"Then you have nothing to apologize for other than the incredibly monotone color scheme in this room. I'm surprised, actually. I'd have thought Porcelain would have taught you better."

His red-rimmed eyes blinked up at her before dropping to the floor. "You didn't have to..."

"I'm sure your mother would disagree," she interrupted, clapping a hand on his shoulder and directing him toward the bed, where she pushed him into a sit, even though he had to stand on tiptoe to do so, shimmying back until his feet no longer touched the floor. "And while I'm not your mother, I am someone's mother and far from the heartless, self-absorbed monster I make myself out to be." She stood back, looking down on him with an appraising gaze now that she could see him.

He was obviously shaken, shaky, still shaking with a fine tremor he was trying to still by fisting his hands in the duvet. His phone was plopped beside him in its own blanket canyon, and he had a defeated hunch to his shoulders she wasn't used to seeing. He was usually so carefully defiant in her presence, to remind her she didn't own him despite the way she'd stepped in to shield him from the heat of the school board. She wasn't sure if it was the hunch of his shoulders, but he looked softer somehow, too, a slight pooch around the waist that could well be the result of decreased physical activity, though it reminded her a little too much of the swelling Jean developed whenever her congestive heart failure started to progress ahead of her medication's ability to keep the symptoms in check.

Reaching out to grasp his face so that she could feel for swollen glands, she tilted his head up to meet her gaze. "So, you wanna tell me what happened?"

He hesitated, swallowing hard as he blinked rapidly.

"You know, I may not be a doctor, but my sister, Jean, who you never had the pleasure to meet, was born with a heart defect. It's actually one of the major known complications of Down's. We managed it her whole life until she passed from pneumonia as a result of congestive heart failure. For at least the last thirty years of that life, I was her medical power of attorney, so I'm no stranger to doctor speak." She turned his head side to side, noting that his complexion was more pale than flushed as it had been while he was locked up in the bathroom with little to no air circulation. She bent, moving her thumbs over his cheekbones in order to get a better look in his eyes, which were glassy and red from crying, but otherwise normal. "I am, however, pretty incompetent when it comes to mind-reading." She patted his cheek, then stood up. "I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."

He crumpled then, hugging his arms to his chest and ducking his chin as a fresh wave of tears burst out. She tried to contain her grimace. The kid was an ugly crier. She had a real weakness for ugly crying. "Th-that's just it, I-I,I don't know." His whole chest heaved as he sucked in a breath. "I'm doing everything they tell me to. E-every-everything, and s-still..." He shut his eyes, steeling his jaw shut as his nostrils flared around another stifled gasp. "I'm supposed to be getting better," he cried, head tilted to the side as if it was suddenly too heavy to hold upright. "But I don't f-feel any better," he hiccupped.

"So... what?" Sue prodded with a shrug. "You're okay wearing your big boy panties so long as everything's working the way it's supposed to, but the first time you have a setback, you decide you're wasting your time and just give it all up?"

"No!" He spat, bottom jaw jutting out slightly. And there was that spark she was going for.

"Really?" She pressed. "Because the pathetic, sniveling, superhero alter ego reject sitting before me is not the same poised, pint-sized, and freakishly charming young man that became Student Council President, co-Captain of the Cheerios, and by association, role model for every student at McKinley."

"You don't understand," he grumbled, chin tilted into his shoulder. At least he had his breathing under control again.

"Try me," she offered.

He bit his lip. refusing to meet her gaze. So, she did what she did best. Pulling out the thermometer with a flourish she said, "Well, if you won't open your mouth," she drew out the word suggestively, "I know another way we can proceed."

Then, he actually did flush bright red, before huffing, "Iwasasleep."

"What's that, Fenster? I don't speak 'Usual Suspects.'"

"I. Was. Asleep," he repeated, no longer sobbing despite the tear tracks that continued to refresh themselves every time he blinked. "I didn't do anything wrong, and it still..." He swallowed, Adam's apple jumping. "I got shocked while I was sleeping. I didn't know anything was even wrong. If I didn't have the ICD…my Mom," a great shaking breath, "my Mom would've come home _tomorrow_ and found me..."

Apparently, he'd found the point beyond which he couldn't let his mind go, because he went stone silent, face still like he'd turned off all the churning beneath the surface and just left if floating slack. His eyes met hers, then, holding her gaze for the first time since she'd shown up, dark shadows shrouded by clumps of sodden eyelashes with just her own reflection peering between.

And maybe she wasn't his mother, but she hugged him anyway, for the mother who couldn't be there, and the father that almost got there too late. Everyone was someone's baby, after all.

-#-

Kurt stared at his phone, half convinced that he'd misheard and Blaine hadn't just hung up in the middle of a very emotionally charged phone call because Sue Sylvester told him to. But when it didn't immediately ringback, and then didn't do so one minute, two minutes, or five minutes later, he blinked. Even dried out and burning, his eyes overflowed the reservoir dams in the deep corners when he clenched them shut in an effort to push down the tide of panic working its way up his throat with every echoing pound of the heart in his chest. He swallowed the backwash flooding his sinuses with a drawn out, sniffling inhale and forced his eyes open wide, then wider to override the reflex to shut down and curl in, squared up his shoulders and stood, precision like a toy soldier as his jaw clenched.

One crash, giggle, moan from three curtains over, and the cork came out, releasing every last one of his bottled up emotions, love, fear, powerlessness, and _rage_. He wasn't a violent man, had spent most of his formative years fighting back with his words, his mind, and his own success without raising a fist, despite his own accumulated aches and bruises. But that didn't mean he wasn't angry, that he couldn't be fierce, didn't know rage.

And he did.

He raged that he had to be run out of his own school in order to meet the love of his life. He raged because Baine hadn't hadn't run from his own in time. He raged that someone else's hatred brought them together only to keep them miles apart; that they were struggling, six hundred miles between them, when they should have been moving on with their lives together, that reward postponed by the amount of time _they_ stole from Blaine. He raged that the fairy tale romance he'd dreamed of all his life contained as many elements of Grimm as Disney, that every phone call was exquisite in its careful balance of laughter through tears, so perfectly real in the way it breathed life through him by yoking him hand in hand with the certain uncertainty of death in all its soul reaping disguises.

Mostly he raged that, with all the advances in technology, the closing of geographical distances with virtual intimacy, it didn't allow his arms to reach through the phone and hold Blaine while he flew apart, didn't give his words the power to fix anything in the face of panic and terror, crying, screaming, suffocating, silent with no air and no time to string them together with anything but sobs of his own.

But seeing as how he couldn't change any of that, and wouldn't, because loving Blaine was both the heart of his ache and the beat in his heart, and he couldn't just turn it off, he'd have to do something else with all that righteous rage.

God help them all.

Striding through the loft without making any effort to silence his footfalls between the tamp of throw rugs scattered over the gouged hard wood, he covered the distance between his corner and Rachel's in half the number of steps it usually required.

Although it wasn't actually necessary to open the curtain to be heard, Rachel and Brody had been disrespecting that fact for the last hour, and Kurt returned the favor, covering his eyes with one hand before dragging the curtain back with the other, enough force in his grip to send more than one of the plastic drapery hooks clinking to the floor.

"All right you two! Knock! It! Off!" His inner Joyce DeWitt was satisfied by the surprised screams and subsequent scrambling punctuated by the thud of Brody's bare feet on the floor as he streaked over to the 'door' in a show of hyper masculine chivalry, too concerned about defending his lady to bother covering himself. Kurt's sense of justice, however, wasn't satisfied until a well-placed heel stomp onto the top of Brody's toes wiped that smug grin off his face and left him doubled over, pretentiously naked, fake-tanned ass aimed in the opposite direction.

He barely registered Rachel's, "Kurt?! What the..." from between the pillows where she was hunched up with the sheet pulled up to her chin before he yanked the curtain closed, pulling down enough of the hangers to leave half of it dragging on the floor and the rest rippling in a non-existent breeze.

As soon as he turned on is heel toward the kitchen, he knew he should be sorry, but he wasn't. He'd just spent the last forty-five minutes trying to convince his boyfriend, who was sick and scared out of his mind after just being electrocuted out of a sound sleep, that everything was going to be okay, while Rachel and Brody did their best to knock the paint off the wall behind their headboard.

And no, Kurt was not sorry for hating them just a little bit for not realizing the ignorance in their bliss.

He wasn't naive enough to believe that would be the end of it, but he utilized the sudden deafening silence to put on a kettle for tea, something cathartic in the whoosh as the burner ignited and the subsequent ticking of the metal expanding over the heat. Each ping and tick penetrated the cavity between his eyes the way the fizz from a soda sometimes did when he tried to drink it too soon after opening the bottle. Cupping an elbow in his opposite palm, he supported one arm across his chest as he pressed a thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, he willed the anger to bleed off with each inhale and exhale. It was maybe working too well, the in and out of his breathing and the gradually rising pitch of the steam somehow drowning out the approaching footsteps.

When the kettle finally whistled, he opened his eyes and jumped to find Rachel standing next to him in her robe. Even though he wasn't sorry, roommate decorum and probably human decency dictated that he apologize, but instead he just blinked at her, holding onto the arm across his chest as if releasing it would somehow allow the two halves of his body, one still angry and restless, the other wrung out and bone weary, to separate and fall to the floor, until she reached past him and turned off the stove. She padded silently over to the cupboard and pulled down two cups. The one she handed him clanked and rattled against the stovetop when he tried to fill it, boiling water nearly splashing onto his shaking hand before she covered it with her own and finished the job, setting both cups on the table next to the lazy susan stocked with different varieties of tea and sweetener.

"Milk?" she asked, and he nodded, pulling out two chairs as she went to the refrigerator. She came back with the vegan soy/almond/coconut/whatever iteration she was drinking that week, and set it down hard enough to let him know she wasn't going back for the kind he usually took, and he supposed he deserved that, but the way she stood back arms crossed and eyebrows raised indicated she was hoping to get a rise out of him. He knew he was supposed to say that there was no actual cream in the milk substitute, which meant it only watered down the tea without enhancing it in any way, and she was supposed to comment about lemon curdling real milk and not wanting chunks in her beverage, but as it was, he'd added the 'milk' and honey to the cup and taken a sip before he even realized he'd forgotten the tea. Rachel scrunched up her chin and pushed back the sleeves on her robe before taking a seat beside him.

Once he corrected his omission, the caffeine in the tea seemed to even him out a little. At least his hands stopped shaking. Rachel must have taken that as a sign that it was safe to speak. "I'm sorry, Kurt. We didn't realize you were still home. It was our understanding that..."

"I know," he sighed, dropping his chin to his chest, "I said I was going to be in the library," his breath came out with a whoosh. "But B-B..." He shut his eyes again, exasperated at the way just thinking Blaine's name made his breath hitch and start the shaking all over again, in his chest this time instead of his hands. "Blaine called."

Again with the chin scrunch, this time accompanied by a slow nod as she took a sip of her tea and set it down. Blaine called all the time, and she knew Kurt's policy about always answering the phone, so he knew he was off the hook for not leaving when he said he would, but there was still the matter of assaulting her naked boyfriend who had yet to make an appearance on this side of the curtain.

He supposed he could spare an inquiry in lieu of an actual apology. "Is Brody...?"

"Nursing his bruised pride and really glad that you were only wearing your jazz shoes," Rachel supplied. She reached over and covered his hand with hers. "And Blaine?"

Try as he might to breathe deeply and stay calm, the breath he tried to take quaked all the way down, and the effort of trying to release it in a controlled fashion only made his throat tighten and the corners of his eyes impossibly tight. He ended up not being able to speak at all, choking on gulp after gulp of stale, half exhaled air while the flood gates behind his eyes busted wide open, tears running together and dripping down the back of his throat and the sides of his nose until he thought he'd drown. Then Rachel was there, the thick plush of her robe soaking up the water works as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled his head into her stomach. She didn't press for information, just held on, her fingers so small where they stroked over his shoulders and the back of his neck until he could get the words out on his own.

"H-h-he he got shocked," he stammered, his owns arms sliding up to her elbows so he could turn his head.

"Oh no... is-is he okay?" she asked.

"Y-es..." He attempted to nod but the movement of his head burrowing deeper into the plush of her robe turned it into a shake. "N-no. I mean, I think he's fine now, but when he called, he was..." He wrapped his arms around her, one more sob shaking through him, "He was so s-scared. And I couldn't do a-any-anything."

"Kurt, you answered the phone, didn't you?" She stepped back, holding him at arm's length with one hand while handing him a napkin with the other. Then she sat. "Look, I don't even claim to know what you a-and Blaine are going through, and admittedly, I 've got so much going on myself right now that I haven't really made much of an effort to understand, but I do know one thing with a fair amount of certainty."

"Which is?"

"Which is, if Finn and I had spent a little more time being available to each other and a little less time pining, we might not have broken off our engagement in such a messy fashion. Now, could I have stopped him from shooting himself in the leg and getting kicked out of the Army? No. And could he have stopped me from bumping into Brody in that dorm bathroom or ending up as Miss July's favorite verbal punching bag? Probably not. But I wish I'd had the chance to be there when he was in the hospital, and I can't help but wonder if I'd have been a little less miserable if I'd had him to talk to all those nights I was hiding under the covers in my bed while my roommate slept with half the student body."

"I know you're probably right, Rachel, but... but you didn't hear him. I hate knowing he's hurting and terrified and that I can't do anything."

She cupped the back of his neck with one hand, stroking at the short hairs above his collar. "But you do, Kurt. You love him, and that's everything. If it was nothing, then he wouldn't call." Kurt opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped him with a finger to his lips, "If it was nothing, and all it ever did was make you feel powerless and lost, then you wouldn't answer."

For an overly confident, driven, self-absorbed, and often obtuse-for-the-sake-of-being-obtuse little woman, Rachel sometimes knew just the right thing to say.

 _Or_ she'd memorized enough romantic comedy dialogue to plagiarize just the right sentiment. Either way, Kurt was glad she was his friend. He wrapped his arms around her, sniffling one last time and then jumping as his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He fumbled free of the embrace and tried not to smear the screen. "Pam... uh, Blaine's mom." Rachel raised her eyebrows and gestured for him to hurry up and answer it.

"Mrs. Anderson... Pam, I'm so glad to hear from you. Is Blaine...?"

"He's fine, honey. That Coach of his must have the magic touch. Apparently he fell asleep shortly after she got there. She says he maybe has a slight fever, coming down with a cold or something, but he's okay for now. Anyway, the snow's starting to let up and I'm on standby for the next flight back. I just wanted to let you know Blaine's okay, and... thank you. For talking with him when I couldn't. And I'll be sure to fill you in after he sees his doctor on Friday, since I know getting him to talk about that stuff is like pulling teeth."

Kurt laugh-sighed, the tension finally melting away. "Th-thank you, Pam. Thank you. Have a safe flight."

"He's okay," Kurt choked, pulling Rachel in for one last hug.

They both spun, tear tracks fresh on their faces, when the door to the loft slid open suddenly.

"Well isn't this touching. Please tell me you're not both on your periods, because they confiscated all my chocolate at the airport."

"Santana!" Kurt exclaimed.

"What are you doing here?" Rachel asked.

Santana shrugged at the luggage entourage strewn about her feet. "Isn't it obvious?" she smirked. "I'm moving in."

-#-

"Kurt, it's just a little cold." Blaine grinned tiredly and feigned exasperation at having had basically the same conversation three or four times already that morning. Kurt did know how to keep him distracted.

"Said everyone in every romantic tragedy ever, right before the cold turned out to be m-meningitis or cancer, congestive heart failure, West Nile Virus, Brain Eating Amoeba, or...or Rabies!"

Blaine dipped his head against his locker, only able to smirk because he knew, despite the alarmist tone in Kurt's voice, he was just taking all of their very real fears and pointing out how ridiculous and pointless it was to obsess about them. "I do not have Rabies."

"You can't _know_ that," Kurt argued. "Your house has that big old attic, and I can't say for certain I didn't see any bats up there when I was putting away your Christmas decorations. I've seen stories, at least two of which were not discredited by Snopes, where bats flew into the duct system of a house through the basement or attic and bit people in their sleep."

"We don't have bats, either, and to be honest, whatever was in that cold buster kit of Tina's really did the trick. I feel mostly fine this morning, just a little sniffle."

"Tina? Really? Are you sure Sue didn't slip you one of those steroid injections she gave Mercedes at Nationals last year?"

"Um, no, but I am sure that _I_ feel much better this morning, and that _you_ are sleep deprived and rambling." He glanced over his shoulder at the trio bearing down on him from the other end of the hallway. "I can't believe you gave Santana your bed."

"I wouldn't say 'gave' is the operative term," Kurt grumbled. "She borrowed my room to change out of her traveling clothes and then rolled around naked on my duvet. Now I need to find time between Dance Class and Performance Vocal Calisthenics to make a laundry run."

"Well, you can practice your vocal calisthenics while your sheets tumble dry. The acoustics in the laundromat are usually pretty awesome." Blaine offered. "But speaking of running, I have to let you go. I think I'm about to get dressed down by McKinley's own Secret Society of Worry Warts."

"Hmm, say 'hi' to Tina and Sam for me," Kurt dismissed. "Counting down the days to Mr. Schuester's wedding, baby. Take care of yourself. Love you."

"Love you, too." Blaine barely got his phone switched off before his locker door caught a shove from behind him and slammed shut in his ear.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Blaine turned slowly to meet three glaring pairs of eyes. "Uh, hi, Tina... and Sam...Finn. I was getting ready to change out my homework for my third period Physics book." He motioned to the messenger bag, unzipped at his hip. "Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, dude, what are you even doing here?" Finn asked. "First, Tina comes to school looking like the last one standing at the end of 'Night of the Living Dead' with a story about how you were so sick you had a heart attack or something, and then you missed First and Second periods without bothering to text any of us and tell us where you were."

"Look, I'm sorry, Queen T, if I freaked you out last night." Blaine put on his most earnest expression as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in for a hug. "I was a little freaked out myself, but I'm fine now. Your cold buster kit really did the trick, okay?"

She looked up at him, a tear in the corner of just one eye as she searched his face. "But your heart..."

He finished zipping up his messenger bag and started a slow walk down the hall toward his class with the three of them in tow. "I... had an episode, which my ICD resolved, and I'm fine now, or I will be once I kick the last of this cold. It's no big deal." Whether he actually believed that mattered little so long as he convinced them.

"Well, okay, if you say so," Sam begrudged, obviously not buying Blaine's dismissal as genuine, "but if you're so fine, how come you're late getting to school and didn't answer me when I texted you?"

"Since I... got shocked, I'm not allowed to drive, and..." he ducked his head because the next part was even more embarrassing than losing his driving privileges, "since I can't do any strenuous exercise, I had to wait for my mom to shovel the driveway herself and then bring me to school." He glanced up at the others, feeling his cheeks burn at the admission. "But the official story is, my car wouldn't start."

"Man, that sucks," Finn noted. "Why didn't you say something? Burt's got a plow attachment on the shop truck especially for driveways and parking lots. If you needed help, I could've put you on the list. You'd have been plowed out before breakfast."

Blaine nodded. "Thanks, man. That's exactly what Kurt said when he called me up five different times this morning to make sure I was really fine and too busy to answer your texts." He held up his hand, "Which I am, and I'm not talking about this anymore. I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, during which I fully expect to find out that everything's working exactly the way it's supposed to, and I refuse to worry about this or let any of you worry about this until after that."

"Well, okay, then," Tina asserted, squaring up her shoulders as she stuck out her lower lip defiantly. "In that case, I have a diva week to win."

"Speaking of diva," Blaine segued, "Did you hear about Santana? She just moved in with Kurt and Rachel."

"She... what?" Finn and Sam responded in kind.

Tina halted abruptly, eyes glaring with more than the remnants of tears, and she pointed her finger at him, hand on hip. "Blaine Anderson, you did not just steal my diva thunder by mentioning Santana Lopez. She does not even go here!"

"Oh! Tina, I'm sorry! I..." He smirked, winking at Sam and Finn to show he knew exactly what he was doing. No way was he missing school and risk losing the privilege of taking off the next Thursday for Mr. Schue's wedding, and no way was he letting everyone hover around him like he was about to pass out, either. This day was about...Tina. And anyway, he was done thinking about last night. Or tomorrow, for that matter.

Tina's eyes narrowed to slits, her lips too tight to even whistle, "You guys are all. the. same. But this diva 'don't sweat da haters.' So get outta my grill and outta my way." With that, she stalked off and proceeded to win that Diva title, just like he knew she would.

Sam and Finn fell into her wake, one at each of Blaine's shoulders. "Seriously, though. Is that for real? Santana cohabitating in a room with no walls next to Kurt and Rachel?" Finn pried.

"And Brody, apparently," Blaine offered.

Blaine could have apologized, but he didn't. Instead, he relished the trading back and forth of raised eyebrows and silent, cringing 'ooohs.' Deflection was a fine art. He learned it from his mother.

-#-

Kurt loved Mr. Schue. He did. And he had no prior issues with Miss Pillsbury. In fact, he should probably thank her for inviting him to the wedding at all after he ralphed on her shoes sophomore year. Still, if there was a suggestion box, he would definitely be lodging a complaint about scheduling their wedding on a Thursday. Who did that? Okay, he got it. Valentine's Day. It wouldn't land on a weekday every year, and they had the rest of their married lives together during which neither of them would ever have an excuse for forgetting their anniversary, but seriously, they couldn't, like, get the license on Thursday and just have the ceremony on Saturday or something? He didn't know how it was working out for everyone else, but Kurt had class until late on Wednesday and wouldn't end up getting into Lima until nearly midnight, several hours after Rachel and Santana, and far too late to catch up with the rest of the graduates at the post-rehearsal reunion dinner at Breadstix.

He missed Mercedes and Puck and Quinn and the rest, but he really, really hated having to wait until the next morning to see Blaine.

He hated even more that Blaine had school on Friday and Kurt had to be back in New York for an early shift at the diner on Saturday morning, the only shift he could trade for his standing Wednesday and Thursday night closings.

He sighed, straightening the coat he had folded over his lap.

"You know, that coat won't do you much good if you're not going to wear it," his dad chided from the driver's seat. Kurt needed a ride over to Blaine's since Blaine was banned from driving for the time being. Kurt would drive them to the church in Blaine's Prius after his dad dropped him off, though he wasn't guaranteeing he'd be able to make the entire trip with both hands on the wheel. Hell, if Blaine looked half as good in person as he did in Kurt's memory, he'd be glad he had the coat to maintain some semblance of dignity.

"Um, I didn't want to crush my pocket square," Kurt dismissed, embarrassed at the gravel that had crept into his voice.

Burt chuckled knowingly. "And I suppose you didn't pack anything warm in that overnight bag you stashed in the back that you didn't think I knew about, either. You got plans you want to tell me about, or should I stay up half the night worrying about you freezing to death in a ditch somewhere?"

Kurt cupped a hand over the rising blush on the back of his neck and turned his face into the window, suddenly captivated by the lack of adequate snow removal service in this town. "I don't think staying warm will be a problem," he admitted.

Kurt could practically hear his father raising his eyebrows and smirking behind him. "Does Blaine's mother know not to expect him home, then? He's been sick recently, you know. She'll worry."

"It was her idea, actually." Kurt turned just enough so he could see his dad out of the corner of his eye, his chin still dropped, not because he was afraid of a reprimand but because the promise of that night felt sacred somehow, and he only wanted one other person in that sanctuary. "Part of her Christmas present to us. She paid for the room."

His dad rubbed a hand on the thigh of his jeans before straightening his cap and then trading it with the one on the wheel as he leaned his opposite elbow on the arm rest, his head leaning onto his fist. "That's a nice present," he smirked. "And I assume you were eventually going to tell me."

Kurt darted an eye across the cab. "Actually, I was kind of hoping to take one look at Blaine, yell 'don't wait up,' and then slam the door, hoping you'd get the hint."

Burt chuckled to himself. "Hint taken," he said. At least, that's what Kurt thought he said. It was hard to hear anything over the barrage of fireworks that exploded behind his eyes when he caught sight of Blaine gliding down the front steps of his house to meet them, his own coat folded over one arm, and looking more stunning than even the fantasy Kurt had conjured in anticipation of the moment. The truck was still rolling to a stop in the Anderson's driveway when Kurt opened his door. Only his father's firm grip on his bicep kept him inside the vehicle until it was safe to exit. "Kurt."

Kurt caught his breath and turned in his seat. "Dad?"

Burt nodded toward the back and then reached behind the seats before pulling out Kurt's overnight bag and shoving it into his arms. "You boys have a good time."

Kurt knew he was beaming when he said, "Thanks. And Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't wait up."

-#-

Despite the threat of pending spontaneous combustion, Kurt resisted the urge to run over, sweep Blaine up in his arms, and kiss him breathless until they both collapsed into the nearest snow bank. Instead he waited, swaying silently in place, his most demure expression curving the edge of his smile and the corners of his eyes as the snow crunched behind him and his father accelerated away, Blaine's hand raised in salutation until the truck rounded the corner out of sight.

Then, hoisting his bag over his shoulder, Kurt sidled over, outstretched hand taking the keys from Blaine's while pressing their palms together, fingers interlacing. Bending down, he opened the passenger side door of Blaine's Prius and stood a little too close to usher Blaine inside without brushing their entire bodies together from knee to shoulder. Blaine stopped him from drawing away too fast by grasping hold of the bowtie around Kurt's neck and peering up at him through his eyelashes. Kurt inhaled and averted his eyes before he got too drawn in, dropping his chin to Blaine's shoulder long enough to whisper. "You look amazing."

"I missed you so much," Blaine breathed into Kurt's throat before letting his hand slide down from the bowtie, across chest to elbow, before slipping into the car. Kurt was pretty sure he was going to go blind if his pupils dilated any farther out here in the glare of winter, so he met Blaine's gaze for just a second before shutting the door a split second behind one perfectly shined black shoe.

He didn't hurry crossing in front of the car, made sure to stand, let his suit fall just right as he straightened the strap of his bag over his shoulder and tried to let the frigid air cool his blood despite the heat of Blaine's keen stare as it bored laser beams through him and all his carefully fitted clothes.

By the time he dropped his bag behind the seat and slid inside, resisting the urge to squeak in surprise at finding himself practically on top of the steering wheel before adjusting the seat back, his face felt like an ice cap over a lava lake, melted to the point of cracking with steam geysers in his fingertips. He'd driven half a mile before he realized they were going the wrong way, a fact he would've missed entirely had Blaine not slid a hand onto his thigh and dropped his chin onto Kurt's shoulder close enough that he could feel more than hear the raspy, "Easy, tiger. I'd rather go straight to the hotel, too, but they're expecting us at the church." A beat passed while Blaine's fingers tightened suggestively, the goosebumps sparking over Kurt's skin from his scalp to the elastic of his socks having nothing at all to do with the dry February chill in the air. Then, as they eased the car around, Blaine turned the heat down and breathed just behind Kurt's ear, his cheek scratchy against Kurt's throat, even freshly shaven. "I think the defroster just broke. Better step on it before the windows fog up."

Kurt's foot stomped down on the accelerator.

Hotel, churching parking lot. Potato, potahto.

"Blaine, my coat is there for a reason."

"My hand is cold."

Kurt arched up out of his seat. "Ooomph."

"Warm it up for me."

"Nnnngh, where is that church?!"

-#-

By the time Mercedes dragged them from the back of the car and into the church, sans crushed pocket squares, Blaine and Kurt were at least fully reacquainted if less than satisfied and more than wrinkled. They narrowly missed being hit by a cab speeding away empty as Ms. Pillsbury hiked her dress up to avoid the flinging slush sprayed out behind it and jogged back inside with a slightly glassy-eyed smile in their direction. Kurt may have unceremoniously shoved Mercedes out of its path while wrapping his arm more tightly around Blaine to pull him closer. And he might, then, have held on long enough that Mercedes had to physically re-insert herself between them with a knowing huff, but the response was automatic. It's not like he could've helped it. Or would've, given how amazing Blaine smelled pressed up against him and buzzing with adrenaline.

It was probably a good thing that Mercedes walked between them as a buffer, because that chemical reaction was about five minutes from releasing the kind of kinetic energy that would require a change of clothes.

Kurt couldn't find it in himself to be apologetic. Not when Blaine was flushed and giggly, sparking with life and love the way Kurt hadn't seen him since before Nationals. Not when he was just as loopy himself, relying perhaps too much on the composure of his freshly tucked shirt and the crispness of his lapels to create an air of 'put together' when his blood was still fizzing with the potential to send him flying apart.

He couldn't help but feel as though they'd slid backwards through a time warp. Instead of passing through the narthex and into the nave of the church, they were sneaking out of the Common Room at Dalton. Pavarotti's teeny tiny and only half bedazzled casket was all but forgotten in the bottom of his bag as he relished the new sensation of Blaine's fingers, his _boyfriend's_ fingers, between his, all the way up to the thin web of skin at the junction of knuckle and hand where he couldn't remember ever feeling another person's touch, new and perfect and blushing with the thrill of it.

This really was like starting all over again, only better, because nothing he'd imagined then about how good it _could_ be came anywhere close to how good it _was_ , and now, how amazing it was again.

It wasn't until they sat down in a pew and overheard Quinn and Santana sharing a rousing conversation that somehow made Al Roker and Mr. Schuester seem superior to the entirety of the male gender that Kurt realized he and Blaine hadn't actually talked about anything of substance since his dad dropped him off... 45 minutes ago. When he laced his fingers into Blaine's, mutually thwarting Tina's attempt to sandwich herself in between, he decided they didn't need words. Words they could have even separated by six hundred miles. This –the silent communication of breath and touch, proximity so tight that their auras, if they had them, must surely be mingling –this was what they'd been missing.

And now they weren't anymore.

He tried to follow the ceremony but tuned out when Mercedes sang, however beautifully, a lyric about husband being yoked to wife that threatened to spoil his mood with overthinking. Instead, he slid down in the pew just enough that his shoulder butted squarely against Blaine's, pinning the fabric between them, so when he stroked his thumb over the swell of Blaine's and pulled their hands into his lap, the cuffs of their shirt sleeves rode up and their wrists pressed together, thrumming pulse points and pounding hearts.

Will and Emma had their 'I do' moment(1), and then they were back again, in Blaine's car, and finally at the hotel with just the technicality of the reception between themselves and the room upstairs. In order to keep things from boiling over between them, they did the noble thing and went their separate ways to mingle.

Blaine felt bad for Tina, since she didn't have a date, and Kurt had missed the dinner with the other New Directions graduates so had catching up to do with Puck and Mike. Kurt made what passed as small talk but couldn't keep from brushing a hand over the back of his neck and ducking his head with a blush every so often only to catch Blaine's eyes on him over Tina's shoulder or behind Sam's back.

Kurt returned the attention, laughing a little too loudly at one of Puck's inappropriate jokes just to justify tossing his head up for a better view of the back of Blaine's suit pants between the tails of his coat, stretched all the tighter by Blaine's hands in the perfectly pleated front pockets. If her glassy-eyed pallor and slightly dismissive smile was any indicator, then he may have spun Mercedes on one too many turns when he invited her to dance as he tried to steer them closer to where Blaine was laughing and talking with Marley and Unique. He was on his way to talk to Finn, who seemed to be in some kind of funk that he assumed had to do with seeing Rachel, when Blaine motioned that it was their turn to sing. Not a moment too soon, either, since Rachel was making her way toward Finn, and pretty much every one of Kurt's electrons was dragging him toward the outermost orbitals of Blaine.

The fun, poppy beat of Depeche Mode's "I Just Can't Get Enough," was the perfect song to come back together on, flirty and cute with just enough energy to take the edge off the sexual tension without negating the spark of exhilaration they got from performing again together, feeding into each other to make that synergy that pulled the crowd onto the dance floor around them.

But if anything could've kept them from their room upstairs, it wouldn't have been the other guests, the small talk, or even the thrill of performance. It would have been the way it felt, after the song when they were finally, finally dancing together, slow shuffle and sway with Blaine's head on Kurt's shoulder, hands under the tails of suit coats, just stiff linen between fingertips and skin.

"It was a beautiful ceremony, wasn't it?" Blaine sounded nearly catatonic, dreamy and loose in Kurt's arms.

It was freaking adorable.

"Hmm, I guess," Kurt teased, shrugging just enough to roll Blaine's head closer to his own throat so he could relish in the tickle of loosening curls on the underside of his jaw.

Blaine curled closer, sliding his arms up to Kurt's shoulder blades from his waist as he chuckled low in his throat. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, weddings are nice, but I don't know if relationships really work." He tightened his fingers at Blaine's waist, knowing full well how ticklish he was there. "I mean, weren't Bethenny and Jason supposed to be forever?"

Blaine twisted himself away, lifting his head without straightening the tilt as he fixed Kurt in his gaze. Kurt could hardly refrain from kissing the lopsided grin off his face as Blaine parried with, "For every Bethenny and Jason, there is… a Will and a Jada." His bushy eyebrows quirked up as he smoothed the shoulders of Kurt's coat, feet still swaying between each other, "And a-a... Kurt and a Goldie."

Kurt pulled him back in, burying his chin behind Blaine's ear as he breathed, "I'm Goldie, right?"

He could feel Blaine's smile against his collar. "Of course." His voice was a full step lower and barely supported, with a raspy timbre that sent shivers down Kurt's spine when he said, "Just please tell me that, whether relationships really work or not, we're still going upstairs after this song."

Kurt closed his eyes and let his lips brush the shell of Blaine's ear, exhaling long and slow. "I'll get the key."

-#-

Kurt rolled over in the night, still loose and sated, the bed an unmade tangle of sheets hobbled around their shins, and reached for the bedspread they'd tossed in the chair before it could get soiled. He sat up just enough to drag it over to the bed and wafted it up into the air so that it could settle evenly over the two of them, the undershirts and boxers they'd thrown back on no longer keeping down the chill of dampened sheets and pillowcases beneath them. Still half awake, head pillowed on one arm, he let his free hand slip around Blaine's waist, fingertips seeking out the familiar dips and valleys, bone, muscle, and sinew loose and chilled several degrees cooler than when they'd slipped apart still panting and wrung out. He didn't know how long they'd been asleep, how long they had left to sleep, or whether what he really wanted to do with the rest of their time together was sleep at all, but he did know Blaine was too far away.

He was sunken too far into the down pillow and too tangled in the sheets, all of his limbs too sprawled to handle the concerted effort of moving. Instead, Kurt just curled his one arm into his chest, dragging Blaine along with it. Chest to back, the weight of the darkness and the months of forced separation behind them, Kurt let himself sink under a little deeper.

When his tongue slid a little too far down his soft palate, he woke again with a start, unsure where the snore had come from or if he'd heard it at all. A glance through slitted eyes assured him he hadn't disturbed Blaine, but part of him, a very specific part, was disappointed. Taking a deep breath, he weighed his options momentarily before rubbing his hand over Blaine's chest and nuzzling into his hair. Then he waited, a playful smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

A moment passed with no adorable sleep garbled mumble of protest.

A second with no ticklish twitch away from the breath on his neck.

A third with no deep, waking breath.

Kurt tried again, this time adding a thigh tucked up beneath the swell of Blaine's ass.

And again, whispering into his ear. "Blaine. If you open your eyes for me, we can get our money's worth out of this room before you have to get up for school."

No snuffling moan.

No scrape of cheek burrowing into pillowcase.

No... anything.

Kicked between the shoulder blades from somewhere inside, Kurt bolted upright.

"Blaine?"

Throwing back the bedspread, Kurt took in the awkward sprawl of Blaine's arms and legs, the curve of his spine from where Kurt had pulled him in earlier, like he hadn't moved at all since then. Eyes already darkly shrouded under long lashes and the eaves of thick brows seemed blackened, sunken in above lips the color of ash.

Beneath his fingers, cold flesh and still air, no tranquil breath... no beating heart.

"Blaine!"

-TBC

(1) Miss Pillsbury didn't do her runaway bride impression, because Will never went to Washington for the Blue Ribbon Panel and instead stayed to chauffer in his new show choir competition format. Since he was there to help with the wedding planning, and didn't leave her to deal with it on her own, she didn't have a meltdown (only almost-hence the cab speeding away without her), and they got married. Anyway, I never really got how her running off advanced the overall story at all other than to give Finn and Schue a reason to feud, which was ludicrous, anyway. Finn's already going to school in this 'verse. He doesn't need to be run off by Schue.


	21. The Calm

AN: You may have noticed by now that my Blaine calls his mother, 'Mama.' I don't know why. At least he's consistent.

Warning: This chapter contains undiagnosed OCD and underage drinking. Sort of.

-#-

Kurt's throat closed, his chest suddenly so full of panic and denial, exhales crashing into inhales, that he couldn't form a coherent thought that didn't start with 'nonononono' and end with 'can't be happening.'

"Blaine!"

He was better. Blaine was better. He got the ICD so this couldn't happen.

"Blaine!" He didn't swim through the motions now, sleep fully erased and synapses firing in every muscle of his body, taking Blaine's undershirt by the fistful and shaking him. "Blaine!"

It couldn't happen. It couldn't.

"BLAINE!"

-#-

Blaine didn't remember setting an alarm. In fact, he didn't remember much after the final slump and sigh other than Kurt unceremoniously tossing his underclothes onto the bed beside him and opening his eyes some minutes later to find the room cloaked in darkness and butterfly kisses ghosting over his shoulder. He supposed Kurt might have set an alarm, but that's what wakeup calls were for.

Whatever had started the high-pitched din, Blaine was doing his level best to ignore it until the bed started to shift beside him. He imagined Kurt reaching for the clock or phone or television remote, whatever it was that would stop the wailing, and sighed into is pillow in anticipation of the good morning kiss that was sure to follow.

He'd almost completely slipped back into the thick sponge of sleep when the entire bed jolted. He opened eyes, suddenly hyper aware that the noise had never ceased, and now the entire world shifted in counterpoint, forcing him to sit up and take stock of his surroundings. His entire under shirt twisted as he rose, the collar pulling at his neck hard enough to burn before he realized Kurt had hold of it and wasn't about to let go.

"Kurt?"

Rising up onto one elbow, it took him a minute to make out the shape of Kurt lying beside him. A single stripe of street light from between the curtains rippled over his chest as it rose and fell in tempest as if trapped under some crushing weight, each breath a cresting wave of agony capped off by an indecipherable albatross cry. Reaching above him, Blaine found the switch for the reading lamp over his head, then dropped his hand to grip the one fisted in his shirt as he turned into the sink in the mattress. Kurt's eyelids convulsed over rippling sockets, trapped in a nightmare as his jaw clamped to near tetany around whatever scream was clawing up his throat in choked punctuation to every heave of his chest.

Wrenching Kurt's hand free, Blaine tried to stroke him into waking by massaging his thumb into the sweating palm and jiggling his wrist. "Kurt! C'mon."

When that only caused Kurt to suck in a heaving breath, jaw unclenching even as his nostrils flared, Blaine writhed around, feet still twisted in the bedsheet and knuckled into his ribcage, no longer inviting a response but pulling one out by the root.

"BLAINE!"

Kurt choked on the scream, eyes wide open in the span of a heartbeat to find Blaine leaning over him, brow furrowed as he thumbed over Kurt's cheekbone.

"Kurt?"

Fast, tight breaths deepened into long tenuous draws as recognition dawned, Blaine's gaze locking onto Kurt, an anchor chain through the rippling turmoil.

"It's okay," Blaine soothed. "It's just a dre..." His words were cut off as Kurt heaved himself up, arms wrapping Blaine in a vice grip that knocked him onto his back.

His sobs broke Blaine, a desperate keening wail that scraped over every nerve ending so that he met Kurt's onslaught of open-mouthed cries, ropes of tears and spit joining lips to throat, with a full body clutch, fingernails cutting through thin cotton and shoulders burning as Blaine pressed his own desperate kisses again and again to the top of Kurt's head and waited for the shaking to stop.

After a while the heaving quieted to more of an exhausted slosh and sigh, the wail to a chant, "okokokokok."

The way Kurt turned his ear so that it was directly over Blaine's heart as he held his breath and listened to it pound in his chest, it wasn't hard to guess what Kurt's dream had been about.

"It's okay," he soothed. "I'm okay."

A stuttered, hiccupping inhale, and a fresh swell of hot tears soaked through Blaine's t-shirt. Kurt choked, "I-I woke up, and we were h-here, but when I tried to wake you...y-you, you were..."

"I'm fine," Blaine whispered, smoothing the tension with a continuous stroke of his palm up and down between Kurt's shoulder blades until the space between them opened and he sighed deeper into Blaine's embrace. "It was just a dream."

"But it could happen."

"It won't."

"You don't know that."

"No, I don't." Blaine let himself go still, metered his own breathing as he wagered a truce with the truth. "But I have to believe it won't. I can't be afraid it will happen and be afraid of the thing that's supposed to stop it at the same time. I couldn't take a breath if I did that."

He felt Kurt's fingers ghosting over the scar under his collarbone, exposed by the stretched neckline of his shirt, feather light touches over the slight bulge beneath it. "I know," Kurt sniffed. "I don't even... I don't know where that came from. Yesterday, last night, this... all of it...it's been so perfect. I'm so happy. I don't know why...why now?" A beat, then two as they matched breaths. "Is this what it's like for you?"

Blaine's voice felt sticky, his tongue thick and heavy at the opening of his throat. "Mmm, sometimes, maybe. It probably would be if I wasn't... if I didn't have the help I do."

Kurt's next breath was more of a sigh, the tide of desperation having ebbed. He tilted his head up, eyes sliding slowly as if they were following the tear tracks along Blaine's stubbled jaw and up over his cheekbones until they were locked with Blaine's. "I don't want you to be sick anymore."

"I know." Blaine sighed as well, his arms folding a little tighter around Kurt's torso, "But you should know that being here with you, like this, makes me feel..."

Kurt picked at the growing wet spot in Blaine's t-shirt where it was soaked with tears and saliva, and whatever else had leaked out of him when his soul oozed out. "Soggy?"

Blaine rolled his eyes. "No...invincible."

"Really?"

"Kurt," Blaine thumbed along the jut of Kurt's jaw to make sure they were looking directly into each other's eyes when he said, "we're going to make it... to forever."

"Promise?"

"I promise." And he did. Not because it was in his power to make it so, but because love and hope were infinite, and he knew exactly where to find both.

-#-

"I wish your dad was here," Pam sighed, her eyes fixed on the road ahead as it was illuminated by the headlights, too early yet for natural light to filter through the fog of an early thaw.

"Me, too," Blaine agreed, "especially if they want to do another biopsy. I really don't think I'd have made it through the last one if he hadn't been there." He hated going into these things blind. 'Tests,' he'd come to learn, could mean anything from a simple blood draw to minor outpatient surgery. Since he was being admitted for the day, hence the godawful hour, he had a feeling there'd be more involved than 'a little stick' that they could cover with a smiley face band-aid.

"You're feeling better, though, right?"

Blaine knew she was referring to the cold he'd been getting over when he went in for his checkup a couple weeks ago, right after he got shocked. Fortunately, he hadn't experienced more than a mild pacing charge since then and hadn't had a cold symptom in over a week. Dr. Schwartzmann hadn't wanted to do more than examine his incision and interrogate the ICD while he still had the cold, but taking into account the other complaints, headache, lack of appetite, and the tired, rundown feeling he'd been fighting, they'd set him up for more tests, which was how they found themselves making the trip to Columbus again. Blaine would've much rather been taking the American Civics exam he'd been excused from, blocking music at Cheerios practice, or singing another Barry Manilow or Spice Girls song for the guilty pleasures week he and Sam had organized for glee while Mr. Schue was on his honeymoon.

"Yeah, I mean, I still have the headache most of the time, but I'm starting to think that's my wisdom teeth moving again."

"Hmm, I'm sorry we had to re-arrange the dentist appointment for this. I remember how miserable I was when _my_ wisdom teeth came in," his mom commiserated.

Blaine shrugged. "It's not that bad, yet." He would know. And the tight little frown his mother gave him said she was sorry he had anything worse by which to compare it.

For some reason, that was the one injury they never talked much about. Broken bones, major or minor internal bleeding, brain contusions and collapsed lungs could happen in a car accident, maybe, or playing football, maybe in a tragic show choir accident, he supposed, like falling into an orchestra pit or something. Out of context and other than the fact that they could've, and nearly did, kill him, none of those injuries was particularly horrifying. None carried any particular humiliation.

But something about knowing someone hated him enough to kick the teeth right out of his head...

Yeah, they were all glad it had been his back teeth, and once he'd recovered from the final oral surgery to remove the broken roots from his jaw, they didn't spend much time talking about what lay behind that open, toothy smile. Once his wisdom teeth stopped moving, they could replace the missing molars with implants, and it would be just like it never happened. So, bring on the headaches and the occasional urge to drive a nail through his jaw bone. He'd had worse.

"Oh, I forgot to ask, did you pack an overnight bag, honey? Just in case?"

"In case of what exactly? They're just tests, Mama." No way was he spending the night. He was doing Phil Collins in glee tomorrow.

"Well, if they find something..."

Blaine clenched his jaw and shoved himself back in the seat, fingernails dug into the armrests and ground out a 'hmmf' of denial through his nose. "That's not really how these things work, is it? Usually they spend all day running the tests and don't have any results 'til, like, a week later."

His mother gave him a beat or two to relax, then nodded. "Probably so. Did you at least bring something to read? If they make you wait in the room between tests like they usually do, you're going to get bored."

"I'll probably just nap or watch television."

"Blaine you haven't napped since you were in kindergarten."

"What can I say?" he grumbled. "I've found a new appreciation."

"There's no need to snipe at me," she scolded.

"I'm not." He was, but he didn't really know why, just so... tired of being tired, he supposed, which was no one's fault. His sigh fogged the glass on the window. "I'm sorry, Mama. It's really early."

"I know, baby." He'd barely relaxed in his seat, when she added, "Here's our exit. Almost there."

He glanced at the clock on the dash. 5:47 a.m. Yeah, it was way too early.

-#-

He was already admitted, changed into a ridiculous paper gown, and had endured the drawing of enough blood to feed a really small vampire when the nurse came in to start his I.V., the first confirmation that he was in for a very, very long day.

"It's just saline for now, dear," she reassured, "but it will save you extra sticks when they do the contrast dye and sedatives later on. You might get a little cold. Just let us know if you need extra blankets."

He tried not to show his disappointment, waiting until she'd left the room to flop his head back into the pillow. While he'd suspected the tests would be numerous and complex, he'd still somehow managed to hope that maybe he'd be out and home in time to make Glee practice. If they were doing contrast dyes and sedation, there was no chance of that. Even with his mom to drive, they wouldn't release him until the sedation had mostly worn off, and he knew from experience that it took him longer than most.

"I hope you didn't make dinner reservations," he grumbled. Between the suggestion of food and the smell of the rich McCafé his mother had been nursing for the last two hours, his stomach gave a growl that verbalized his frustration.

"I'm sorry, honey. I know you were hoping for an early day, but I just hope they actually find something useful with these tests for a change. I'm tired of seeing you like this."

Blaine didn't say anything. He'd actually thought he was doing a better job of hiding just how exhausted he was. He couldn't have been doing half bad, or she wouldn't have let him stay with Kurt after Mr. Schue's wedding, but he was definitely ready to be done with this cold or flu or whatever it was. They both turned toward the door, his mom standing from her seat as Dr. Luxeter came in and shook their hands.

"Mrs. Anderson, Blaine," he greeted. "Back for round two, are we?"

"Three," Blaine corrected, though Dr. Luxeter hadn't been present for Blaine's initial diagnosis.

"Right," he granted with a nod. "I'm sorry you had to come in so early. We scheduled quite a full day for you but wanted to make sure we had some wiggle room to move things around based on how you were feeling when you got here. I hear you're getting over a cold?" He released his hold on Blaine's face where he'd been shining a light in his eyes as Blaine nodded. "And you're feeling better, now?"

Blaine shrugged. "Mostly, I guess. I mean, I'm not stuffed up or coughing anymore but I'm still kind of tired, and I feel kind of puffy and bloated like when I had all that drainage going on."

"Tired, how?"

"Um, I don't know, like I'm usually fine, but I might mince choreography if it means I have to cover a lot of ground, like sometimes it just doesn't seem worth the effort, I guess."

Luxeter's chin dipped almost imperceptibly, "Breathlessness?"

"Not often, but yeah, sometimes," Blaine admitted, "I definitely don't remember there being that many stairs in the auditorium," he joked.

The doctor took that in, already feeling for swollen glands. "I see, and the nurse says you're still running a low grade fever."

"Does that affect anything?" his mother asked. "Test wise, I mean? Dr. Schwartzmann wouldn't do any tests as long as he still had the cold, and we already had to cancel a dental appointment to be here today."

"That's understandable," Dr. Luxeter granted, shoving his pen into the pocket of his lab coat after making a few notations on his chart. "A viral infection can confound some test results, and it's common practice to wait until it's run its course before committing too many resources to tests they might have to redo otherwise." Then, addressing the second part of her statement. "You cancelled a dental appointment? So, you haven't had any recent dental procedures, cleaning or scraping of any kind? That kind of thing can also throw a wrench into some of our results."

"No, not since last spring."

"Well, that's all good, then." Luxeter seemed pleased, clasping his hands.

"So you're going to go ahead, even if he's not completely over his cold?" Pam pressed.

Luxeter nodded thoughtfully. "I think, at this point, it's probably safe to say that any symptoms you're having are not cold-related."

"Then what are they?" Blaine asked.

"That's what we're here to find out, now, isn't it?"

"Do you think it's his heart?" Pam speculated. "Is he getting worse? The ICD was supposed to help..."

The doctor lifted a hand, chin tilting down as he interrupted, "The ICD manages symptoms. It doesn't treat the condition. And whether or not Blaine's current symptoms are a result of something that's going on with his ARVC or are caused by something else, there's a definite chance that whatever it turns out to be will affect his heart in the long term." At his mom's somewhat stricken expression, one that Blaine was doing his best to keep tamped down himself, Luxeter smiled reassuringly, "Which is why we're pulling out all the stops. I have the utmost confidence that, while it may take several days to get some of the test results back, by the end of today we'll know enough about what's going on with you, Blaine, to make some pretty confident steps to manage it better than we are now."

"What do you think we need to change?" Blaine asked. "I don't think I can handle many more restrictions."

"Well, after reviewing all of the uploads from your ICD, I'm a little concerned."

"About what, exactly?" Pam prompted. Blaine raised his eyebrows. He was expecting her to deflect.

"It's been long enough since Blaine's diagnosis that we should be seeing a more dramatic response to the medication. He should not still be having multiple episodes of NSVT on a daily basis. I'm well aware that you've got some substantial... um, emotional stress, and that can trigger minor episodes. However, that wouldn't explain the other symptoms."

"Well, if not the cold, then what else would it be?" Blaine wondered.

"He wasn't really complaining about anything before he got the ICD," his mother noted. "Could that be it? I know they told us there was a possibility of infection, but..."

"It is a possibility, one which I hope to rule out, because that's one complication we definitely don't want."

"Because you'd have to take it out again, right?"

"Possibly." The doctor patted Blaine's knee, "But that's why we're here, right? To sift through all the possibilities until we know for sure. Now, I see you've already had your blood draws. We'll get most of those results back by the end of the day, depending how backed up they are downstairs, and until then, we're going to do another chest X-ray and MRI to see if there's any progression with the cardiomyopathy, and if we see anything there, possibly another biopsy." Blaine's jaw tightened at the suggestion. Neither one of those tests had been pleasant the first time, and he'd never endured them back to back before. "BUT," the doctor reiterated, "hopefully we won't need to. A tech should be in here shortly to set you up with an EKG, a few more leads than we've used in the past, and luckily for you, there will be plenty of time for hanging out and watching television while we let that run. So, just get comfortable and try not to worry, okay? We'll take good care of you like we always do."

"Thank you, Doctor," Pam said, grasping Blaine's hand, as Luxeter dismissed himself. Blaine knew she thought he couldn't hear when she said, "Should've packed that overnight bag."

He really hoped she was wrong.

-#-

Though Blaine was thankful that his mom hadn't checked her phone or excused herself to take a call at all in the past few hours, he really wished she had found something more engaging on the television than reruns of 'Mork and Mindy.' He was as big a fan of Robin Williams as the next guy, but you had to sit through ninteen minutes or so of poorly written melodrama to get to the thirty seconds or so of truly inspired performance at the end where Mork delivered his observations to Orson. He wondered why she didn't just change it, when, halfway through the third episode, she started to obsessively check her watch. He was just about to call her out on it when she stood up.

"I'm sorry, honey," she apologized. "I have to run out to the car for a minute. You'll be all right here, won't you?"

"Well, if I'm not, I imagine there's someone around here who can help me," he snarked. In all honesty, he was contemplating how he was supposed to go to the bathroom without disconnecting himself from what looked like the entire power grid. He'd rather a nurse helped him with that, anyway.

"Blaine..." It was obvious she was trying not to scold him for being short with her.

"I'm fine, Mama."

"Well, all right then." She leaned over to give him a quick kiss on the forehead. "I'll be right back."

He followed her out the door with his gaze and was reaching for the call button to get that nurse to help him get to the bathroom when he noticed his mom had left her jacket and her purse in the chair on which she'd been sitting. Not a very convincing ruse, then. If she was bored sitting with him, she could've just said so. She didn't have to make up excuses to get out of the room.

He was still slightly miffed as he made his way back to bed, toting just the I.V. pole. The nurse was reconnecting all of his leads, when the door swung open as if it had been hit by a battering ram and in strolled Finn and Sam, each with a motorcycle helmet under his arm. His mom slipped in behind them, a somewhat coy smile on her face as she said, "Look what I found in the lobby."

"Blaine, bro," Sam greeted. "You didn't really think you could leave me to suffer through class while you're here hanging out with all these hot nurses."

Blaine returned his knuckle bump with a grin. "Last I checked, you had a girlfriend."

"Which is why Finn asked me to come as his wingman."

"Dude," Finn grinned. "Kurt told us you were stuck here all day. No way we were going to just let you sit here without dropping in to keep you company."

Blaine took in the matching helmets and raised a skeptical eyebrow at Sam. "Tell me he didn't drag you all the way here in that sidecar."

"What?" Finn scoffed. "He was testing it out for you. We're still doing that bro trip to visit Kurt once it warms up, right?"

"That depends," Blaine countered. "Did it pass the test?"

"Dude, it was a blast," Sam grinned. Then he shrugged, "Well, at least it was once we got on the highway." Turning to Finn, he added, "You really need to get that clutch checked out, though. We almost went through that intersection. It was a good thing no one was coming from the other direction."

"Yeah, man, that was kinda hairy," Finn admitted. "I guess it sticks a little when you first start it up. I'll get one of the guys at the garage to check it out."

"So," Sam said, switching gears, as he studied the readout on the EKG "What's the good word? You're passing all the tests with flying colors, right?"

Blaine scowled. "They haven't actually done any yet. Well," he corrected, pointing out the leads stuck all over his chest, "other than this one. They drew a bunch of blood, shined a light in my eyes, all the regular stuff. Still waiting for the real fun to begin. I hope you guys brought cards or something, because it's going to be a long day."

Finn shoved Sam's shoulder. "You did bring the cards, right?"

"Better!" He reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out a handful of dice and a pad of paper. "Pocket Yahtzee!"

Blaine couldn't help but grin at his enthusiasm. That grinned faded quickly, however, when a young guy in a lab coat came into the room.

"I hate to break up the party," he apologized, "But I'm here to take Blaine for his X-rays."

Blaine sighed. "Well, all right then. Let's get this show on the road, I guess. You guys start without me."

"No problem, man," Finn said, patting him on the shoulder as the technician disconnected the EKG and attached the IV bag to a hook on the side of the bed. "We'll be here when you get back."

-#-

And they were there.

When he came back from X-ray, and they had an hour to play Yahtzee while the doctor looked at the scans.

When the nurse came in to inject the contrast dye before he was wheeled off to his MRI, and Finn and Sam speculated about the superpowers it might bestow upon him and shared groans of disappointment when they found out it wasn't actually radioactive.

When he came back from MRI, and another group of techs did a diagnostic scan of his ICD and the presets, while Sam gave a play-by-play as the entire cast of "Grey's Anatomy."

When Blaine had a minor freak-out at the prospect of enduring another cardiac biopsy without his dad in the theatre, and Finn distracted him by walking through their setlist options for Regionals while they waited for the sedative to finally kick in.

So, they were there, too, when they were waiting for some orderly or other to come and wheel Blaine down to the surgical theatre, and Dr. Luxeter showed up instead. He entered with his clipboard in hand, his pen pinched against it with one thumb, and raised an amused eyebrow at the state of the room, which bore all the trademarks of having been occupied by three teenaged boys for the greater part of a day.

"Well, I guess now I know why my interns kept volunteering to for 'the party room,'" he quipped. "I thought they were exaggerating."

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Pam apologized, "I tried to keep things down to a dull roar. I hope they didn't disturb anyone."

"No," he countered. "Quite the opposite. The staff seems to enjoy having them. Due to the nature of what we do here, things do tend to get rather somber from time to time. Not many people would voluntarily spend a whole day just 'hanging out' here."

"Well, my son does have... extraordinary... friends," she smiled.

Blaine fist-bumped Sam with a slightly groggy smile to show his appreciation.

"I have to say," Pam segued, "we weren't expecting you, just yet. They told us an orderly would be coming to get Blaine."

"And that was the plan," the doctor nodded, "but I'm afraid there's been a slight change of plans." He lifted the clipboard from his side and held it out in front of him, the bottom pressed into his stomach. He nodded toward Finn and Sam. "We've got some of the test results back. Would you prefer to discuss them here or..." He lifted his eyes suggestively toward where Finn and Sam were seated on the opposite side of the bed.

"They can stay," Blaine interjected. Then, glancing up at them, "If you guys want to, that is. If this stuff makes you uncomfortable..."

"Dude, you're the one with wires and needles jammed everywhere," Finn pointed out. "What do we have to be uncomfortable about?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, facing the doctor. "I've been watching you put my bro, here, through the wringer all day. If he's okay with it, and it doesn't go against some hospital policy, I'd kinda like to know what you found out."

Blaine tilted his head in thanks, registered his mother's nod of consent, and turned his attention back to the doctor.

"Well, all right, then," he conceded. "While the MRI and X-ray don't show any substantial advancement of the cardiomyopathy when compared to previous scans, it appears as though the anti-inflammatory treatment hasn't really been effective either, and the ICD data seems to indicate that Blaine is still in what we call a 'hot' phase of the condition. We were going to attempt a second myocardial biopsy to get a better idea of what's going on at the cellular level, but we just got some of the blood work back."

"What did it show?" Blaine asked.

Luxeter's chin tightened. "Unfortunately, you seem to have some kind of infection going on, Blaine. And without knowing for certain where it's originating from or whether it's metastasized from the site of infection, I don't want to risk doing anything invasive and possibly spreading the infection to your heart, if it isn't there already."

"Is it the ICD?" Pam ventured. "I know you said that was one complication we really hoped to rule out."

With a resigned straightening of his lips, the doctor nodded, obviously having recalled that conversation from earlier. "In all honesty, I don't think it is the ICD or the leads. There's no heat or tenderness around the implant site, and no localized inflammation that we can see either externally or on the scans, so far. However, we can't rule it out entirely without further tests."

"What kind of tests?" Blaine had dropped his gaze to the back of his hand where his thumb nervously traced up and down the veins.

"We're still going to take you down to the surgical theater, but instead of the catheterization, we're going to insert a probe through your esophagus and take an ultrasound of your heart that way."

"Because that's so much less invasive..." Blaine grumbled, a phantom gag already tickling his throat.

Luxeter conceded that it probably didn't sound pleasant with a half-shrug and sideways quirk of his facial features but continued. "We should be able to see any pockets of infection around the ICD leads or the device itself, if that's where it's starting. Whether or not we determine the ICD to be the cause, we're still going to want to keep you here, at least overnight, I'm afraid, so we can start you on IV antibiotics. I can't stress enough how important it is to get a jump on this before it can exacerbate your condition further. And if it is the ICD, then we'll have to seriously consider removing the device, as that's the only surefire cure for an infection in the implantation site."

Blaine's ears started ringing as soon as the doctor said he was staying overnight, and as much as he wanted to hear what came after that, most of it was lost between his eardrum and the part of his brain that was supposed to actually make sense of it. His mom knew how disappointed he was and rested her hand on the bed beside his arm, fingertips grazing just below his IV.

"But he needs the ICD," she said.

"Once again, I want to reiterate that I don't think the infection is related to the ICD, but if we do have to remove it, there would be no contraindication to implanting a new one once he's completely clear."

"But what if that's not the cause?" Finn this time, who didn't even seem to consider whether he was allowed to ask questions. Blaine had noticed he really didn't think about propriety once that giant furrow of concern had formed between his eyebrows. It was one of the things Blaine had really come to admire about him. "I mean, if that's not the problem, and you can't cure it by taking it out, then what do you do?"

"That's where things get tricky," Luxeter shrugged. "It could be anything from a urinary tract infection to sinusitis or even food poisoning. Most of those can be cleared up with antibiotic therapy. We'll still do the IV antibiotics and send him home with a course of orals to hopefully knock out the infection that's there now while we do some cultures to try and pin it down so we can keep it from coming back. If we can't pin it down, we'll do some more blood draws in a week to see if the antibiotics did their job and go from there."

"So, is he going to get better?" Sam followed Finn's lead.

Luxeter nodded. "It's too early to say whether there will be any long term effects, specifically in regard to the progression of his ARVC, but I am at nearly 100% certain that once we clear this up, he will definitely feel better than he does now."

"Well, then," his mom's voice had a slight waver to it, "that's good news, then. Right, honey?" she asked, squeezing Blaine's arm.

Blaine closed his eyes. Sure it was. It was good news. He wanted to feel better. He was going to feel better. That was the most important thing, so he didn't know why he was embarrassing himself by sitting there while the collar of his gown got mysteriously damp.

He always did react badly to sedation.

-#-

"Ninety-nine degrees," Blaine divulged, "I'm pretty sure that extra point four degrees is due to the fact that we're practically stacked like sardines in here. And look," he lifted a plate from his lap, a half -eaten slice of pizza nearly sliding off as he tilted it toward the camera, "actual food that I'm actually eating."

Kurt nodded, taking in the way Blaine grinned back at him from his spot on the couch where he was practically crushed between Tina and Sam. He did seem to be doing better after being on the antibiotics for nearly a week already. Kurt had been worried when Mrs. Anderson called him from the hospital last week and told him they were keeping Blaine overnight, and Blaine hadn't been in particularly good spirits the next day himself, since he'd spent another entire day being poked and prodded with no conclusive answers as to whether he was getting better or worse. But as the antibiotics started to work and he had, indeed, started to feel much better, everyone seemed to have come to the conclusion that the mysterious infection had been the root of all his problems. Even if they never got more conclusive results, clearing that up was worth the roundabout diagnosis.

Besides, with Tubbington Bop looming on the horizon of Brittany's Pringle's can, there had been a slight shift in perspective for everyone. No point in worrying over something as trivial as a heart condition when they were all nearly past their expiration date.

He shook his head at the amount of chaos the New Directions were wrecking on the Anderson living room. He wasn't particularly fond of sharing their Skype time, but since the entire Glee club had gathered in Blaine's living room at the drop of a hat for a 'Yay, the World's Not Ending But Now We Have To Finish All The Homework We Didn't Do While Preparing Apocalypse Later Songs To Perform in Glee Tomorrow Celebration Extravaganza' the options were to share their Skype time or cancel it altogether. Kurt could cyber share, once in a while.

Besides, it eased some of the anxiety that had been fizzing at his nerve endings like the mist over a freshly opened Coke to see Blaine safe and secure and surrounded by friends who cared about keeping each other that way.

In fact, he sort of wished the third option was a teleporter that would beam him directly into the throng. With Brody moving out and Rachel spending more time outside the loft away from every possible reminder, and Santana pre-occupied looking for work, Kurt had been alone for several hours a night every day since Blaine's last round of tests almost a week ago. Suddenly his and Blaine's standing phone/Skype date had just not been enough. It had taken his dad reminding him that he'd already bought a ticket to come home for Regionals in just a couple of weeks and couldn't miss more school this close to finals to keep him from jumping on a plane and spending the next seven days firmly attached at the hip with his boyfriend, thermometer and ICD telemetry wand at the ready.

As it was, they'd had to make do with two phone dates a night. The second, usually around 2 a.m. when he woke, drenched in sweat and strangling in his bedclothes, from some version of the same nightmare that'd haunted him since Valentine's Day, never quite had the same ability to soothe him back to sleep as having Blaine there in his arms had.

"Good, good," Kurt commented, noncommittally, trying not look as if he was mentally removing any digital filters Blaine might potentially be hiding behind. In the background, Marley started to sing along with a YouTube instrumental version of "Turn To Stone," by Ingrid Michaelson, and they all went silent for a moment before nodding their approval.

Blaine used the distraction to ask the question Kurt knew he'd been avoiding. He knew because Blaine had already asked it via text several times that day, and Kurt had deflected every time, twice with anecdotes about Elliott, the amazing new talent they'd discovered for Pamela Lansbury, and twice more with Elliott's glowing account of the music program at Tisch.

"So, I missed your call last night," Blaine prompted, ducking a little closer to his laptop after glancing around to make sure everyone else was distracted. "I'm sorry... you know, if I maybe said too much during our Skype. It's just, Mr. Schue's assignment really got me thinking, and..."

"No," Kurt interrupted. "That was... thank you for that. Really. I guess I got distracted working on my American Composers paper and figured I'd let you sleep."

It was only half a lie. He had been working on that paper most of the night, but only because that hour he and Blaine had spent pouring their hearts out to each other over the phone as part of Mr. Schue's 'Say What You Need To Say,' assignment had rendered him officially unable to sleep... or unwilling, and it really only took twenty minutes or so to rearrange his wardrobe so that he only wore bright, positive vibe invoking colors from then until Blaine was completely in the clear. He didn't mention that he'd passed most of his afternoon while Blaine was still in school polishing all of his shoes (exactly twenty-one buffs of the brush on each toe cap, upper, quarter, and vamp after letting the polish dry for exactly twenty-one minutes) and ordering extra pairs of sky blue socks.

The way Blaine looked back at him, skeptical but obviously reluctant to press for more in mixed company, suggested maybe Kurt was the one who needed to install filters on his internet camera. "So, basically you didn't sleep at all last night."

Damn, either Blaine was getting really good at reading between the lines, or Kurt was getting much worse at obfuscation. Either way, he was touched that Blaine noticed. "Maybe."

"Okay." The picture jostled as Blaine picked up the computer and moved to stand up. "Let me just try and find a little privacy, because we are going to talk."

"About what, Blaine?" Kurt tried to sound dismissive, wasn't actually sure whether he wanted to say more than he already had.

"About, you, Kurt. There's obviously more going on with you than you're saying, and if I have to lock myself in the bathroom, we are going to have some alone time. And then, I am going to sing you to sleep to the dulcet tones of..." He made an oomph as someone, either Ryder or Jake judging by the musculature of the momentary chest shot that blocked the camera, spun into him while practicing impromptu choreography between the furniture.

"Blaine, no... Look, I'm feeling much better seeing you having a good time. I'll be fine. Just," and he raised his voice loud enough to be heard over the chaos, "make sure those bumbling buffoons leave you in one piece." Then, with what he hoped came off as a gleam in his eye, he added. "I'm the only one that gets to make you fall apart."

"And put me back together?" Gaga, there was that adorable head duck and eyelash shutter that made Kurt's heart jump into his throat every time.

"And put you back together." It was a promise.

"All right, then," Blaine glanced over his shoulder. "They're calling me to pick a song. I'm thinking 'Pompeii,' by Bastille. Or maybe 'It's Time' by Imagine Dragons. What do you think?"

"I think you better get singing before they start a riot. It's okay, Blaine. I'll talk to you later."

"You'll call me, you know, if you need to, right? My phone is always on."

"I have a good feeling about tonight," Kurt deflected.

"That's called exhaustion, Kurt. I'm serious," Blaine pressed. "You get some sleep and you call me if you can't."

"I love you."

"Love you right back," Blaine cooed. A second later he was yanked away without closing the Skype session. The camera spun to focus on Tina who waved uncomfortably before mouthing 'bye, Kurt' and ending the transmission.

Kurt closed his laptop and drummed his fingers over the lid as he eyed the curtain to his bed space. He knew he should take Blaine's advice and get some sleep, but... yeah... he just wanted to hold onto the image of Blaine happy and whole and safe for a while longer. He wasn't ready for cold, and still, and grey, and...

Yellow. He needed some sunshine yellow to go with his sky blue socks. He had yellow, didn't he? Sure, scarves, skinny jeans, a vest or three. No coats, though. That would look too much like a rain coat, and that would imply rain, and he was going for clear skies, only clear skies, and...

A red patent leather purse dropped on the table beside him, causing him to jump to attention, not even aware that he'd started to doze where he was sitting.

"Funny thing happened to me on the subway," Santana quipped, arms crossed over the plunging neckline of her red minidress. "Some guy calling himself 'Nightbird' texted me to say my services were required on the home front, and I quote, 'The Confident Color Schemer is gravely depleted of nighttime restoration. Report immediately to the loft and proceed with Operation Put Kurt to Bed. For this, Nightbird will be ever in your debt. You know what you have to do, Latin Leia, and you know it is right.'"

She rolled her eyes, but the quirk of her mouth suggested she was at least partially amused. She always did have a soft spot for Blaine. "All I can say is there better be a gold bikini in it for me." Sliding out a chair, she sat down sideways, the only manner she could manage in that dress and leaned in. "So, spill. And don't tell me Blaine's over-reacting. I'm only a curtain away from your 2 a.m. phone calls, and even if I didn't have this whole place miked for sound, I'd still know all of your secrets. That thing you do by throwing that creepy boyfriend pillow over your head while you talk into its memory foam chest ain't fooling anybody."

"It's just a little rough patch. Stress from school and anticipation about going home in a couple weeks. It's nothing to worry about."

"Well, I wasn't, not really. I mean, when you take a look at things from where I'm standing, it's kinda hard not to roll my eyes. There you are, living in the city of your dreams, accepted into the only school you applied to (which is either really ballsy or incredibly stupid), doting family back home, and a preppy little boyfriend so adorable that even I want to carry him around in my pocket. If you're losing sleep, it's gotta be about ending up as bald as your old man or whether any of us caught an STD from sharing a bathroom with Brody, and I ain't gots time for that."

She looked down at him from her upturned chin where she was splayed in her chair, one arm across the back and the other elbow on the table, fingers wrapped around her phone. "Except then I also got a message from Spongebob Finnpants that says, 'Check'—and that's a checkmark, which I'm pretty sure takes longer to insert in a message than it takes to type the actual word –

'on my bro. B is worried.'"

She looked back up at Kurt, blinking her false lashes to half-mast over her piercing eyes. "And I assume he only knows that 'B' is worried because you've got him watchdogging your boy toy when he's supposed to be getting his own half-baked education at Lima U. So, drop it on me. Just take whatever you got on our chest—most likely edema due to lack of circulation from those ridiculous skinny jeans you insist on wearing, because I know it's not hair—and lay it on me."

Kurt stood, his chair scraping across the floor, and he reached for the tea kettle. "You've been out all day job hunting. Let me make us some tea."

"I gots mine right here," she snarked, pulling a tiny bottle of Jim Beam out of her purse and taking a quick pull.

"Santana, you can't just carry alcohol around with you. You're underage. If you get caught with that on you..."

"They'll what? Take away my license? I don't even own a car." Noting his disapproval as he turned on the burner with a scowl, she added, "And don't bother pulling that judgmental twist outta your jock. I went to school in Louisville, remember? A bottle this size is strictly medicinal, and you'll notice it wasn't even open until I sat down here to talk about your white boy problems."

He sighed. "I'm fine, Santana. Too much caffeine before bed is all."

"He says as he steeps another cup of tea. Fine," she said, plunking her little bottle onto the tabletop. "If you won't talk about _your_ problems, tell me about Blaine. Just, please try to do it without the sickening heart eyes if you can. I snarfed a Gyro on my way home, and I really don't want to know what that tastes like on the way back up." She nodded her chin at him, half invitation, half accusation. "So, what's up with ol' Jekyll and Hyde, and which one is better in bed? Enquiring minds want to know."

"Blaine's fine, too," Kurt said, a strange lurch in his stomach, even though it wasn't supposed to be a lie. "Well, he will be. He was kind of under the weather for a while, but the antibiotics are working. No temperature for almost a week, and his ICD hasn't intervened at all in almost two. He seems..." He gave pause, searching for the right word to sum up the change he'd been noticing in Blaine. "still. He seems still."

"Really?" She darted her eyes side to side, brow furrowed. "We're talking about the same person, right? Blaine Anderson, aka, the Tom Jones of McKinley High?"

"He's never been known as that." Kurt got a cup down from the cupboard and set out the cutting board to slice the lemon. "And yes, really. He's turned a corner, I think. He hasn't had any real episodes since before Mr. Schue's wedding, and I don't know. Maybe getting shocked turned out to be just what he needed to stop worrying about it and just let the ICD do its job. He seems more relaxed, I guess, more like his old self, hanging out with his friends, happy."

"Yeah, Britts sent me this sickeningly cute pic of the whole glee club piled on the Andersons' couch not forty-five minutes ago, your Warbler looking as dapper as ever, even in that Cheerios uniform." She flashed the picture at Kurt but didn't actually hold it up long enough for him to get a good look. "So, if he's fine and back at school, why are you still waking up in the middle of the night shouting his name? I know it's not a recurring sex dream, and if it is, then Anderson needs to work on his game, because those are not moans of ecstasy."

"Why does anyone have nightmares, Santana? If there was a logical reason for it, don't you think I'd have thought it out during the day and put it to rest before I even tried to sleep?"

"Well, maybe that's the problem. You're only looking for a logical reason. In Auntie Tana's experience, fear is completely illogical. If it were logical, then I would be the most fearless bitch on the planet. So, why don't we start with what your dreams are actually about. My Mexican Third Eye is pretty good at picking up on subtext. Maybe I can make some sense of it? C'mon, what you got—slow motion running, erectile dysfunction, the condom broke? Lay it on me." She wiggled her fingers toward her temples and dropped her chin, which Kurt figured was supposed to indicate the opening of her Mexican Third Eye.

"Nothing as metaphorical as that," he mumbled, focusing on slicing the lemon in perfectly even slices without cutting off his fingertips. in his mind he calculated the exact number of quarter inch slices he could get from a three inch lemon with the ends removed.

One, two, three.

"Kurt..."

"I dream he dies."

Four, five, six.

"Which we all will, eventually."

"No, I dream we're asleep together, like right now, and when I wake up..."

Seven, eight, nine.

"He doesn't. I-I try to shake him, but he's just, cold. He's gone, and there's nothing I can do except hold him and scream."

Ten, eleven... the last slice was too thin. What did that mean? Did that mean his dream would come true now? It did, didn't it? No, no, he couldn't let that happen. He needed to fix it. He needed... "I need another lemon." The knife clattered to the cutting board as he spun for the fruit bowl on the other end of the counter. "I didn't get that one right."

"Kurt, Blaine's got half of Lima, Ohio looking out for him. If he's not fine, he's going to be. Nothing bad is going to happen to him just because you're not there."

"I know that."

One, two.

"And I know that what's going on with him is nothing I could stop even if I was there. But it just..."

Three, four.

"For a long time it seemed like he never had anything but setbacks, like we could never get a full breath before the next big punch to the gut. First, t-there was the ARVC, then the depression, then bipolar. And then when he started to get a handle on that, his ARVC went hot, and the ICD was supposed to manage the symptoms and keep him safe, but the first time it did its job it triggered this bipolar...rage, which I was definitely not ready for, because no one _ever_ talks about that part of it, like it's this big secret, and then, WHAM!"

Five, six.

"The ICD shocked him while he was asleep, for crying out loud, ASLEEP, which practically gave him a panic attack, and now they're saying this infection could have long term effects... but he's just...still."

Seven, eight.

"It's like… nothing has ever really gotten better before, how can he... how can _anybody_ believe it's better now?"

Nine.

"But that's how this whole therapy thing works, though, right? One day at a time, and live the moment you're in. Sounds like he really is doing better."

Ten.

"I know, and I'm happy for him. I am. And I'm so proud to be with him, just knowing how hard he's willing to fight, but I can't help but feel like we're letting our guard down too early. Like, we're on the cusp of something really, really bad, and it's going to hit us completely out of the blue because we're not paying attention to what the universe is trying to tell us and not doing anything to stop it."

Eleven, twel..."Crap!" This time he almost stabbed himself in the foot by setting the knife down with too much force and too close to the edge so it tipped over and clattered to the floor. "I need another lemon!"

Santana intercepted him on the way to the fruit bowl and switched off the burner as the kettle began to whistle. "Hey! Hey, hey!"

Kurt flinched, picturing that moment in those old commercials where the guy was freaking out until someone slapped him, and then he grinned and said 'thanks, I needed that.'

He wouldn't put it past Santana to slap him, but she didn't. Instead, she fisted her raised hand into the shoulder of his shirt and held him at arm's length while she stared him down, her other hand pointing in his face. "You stop right there and listen to me, okay? I know that things have been bumpy for you two this past year, and I know it sucks. I hear you go on and on about everything that's going wrong for Blaine, and I know you love him, so you're frustrated and scared, but the way I see it, you're overlooking the one thing that's going right." She grasped his chin and made him look at her.

"You, Hummel. Blaine has you, and what the two of you have is something some people never get in their whole lives. No matter what crap life is throwing at the both of you right now, I can't help but think it gave you each other to make sure you'd come out the other side. And you will, together." She dropped his chin. "So says my Mexican Third Eye. And that is why Blaine is better and that is why even though he knows there will always be setbacks, he isn't standing around waiting for the next one to happen, because he knows you will make it better. Just like you always do."

Kurt digested the words and wished for a second he'd been slicing onion instead of lemon, because then he'd have a legitimate reason to burst into tears. But just like fear, tears were illogical, and these were feral as well, giant whooping sobs that ripped him open as she pulled him into a hug. "But for now, let's take care of you, okay? Because I know a certain curly-haired Cheerio captain that needs you, and you're not any good to anyone like this."

"Thank you," he sobbed.

"Here, let me get that 'tea' for you," she offered, pressing him back into his chair. She grabbed the bottle of Jim Beam with a flourish. "Likes I said, medicinal," she explained, putting three full glugs into the bottom of his tea cup before she added the water. "We'll call it Irish," she shrugged, taking another hit herself, which effectively drained the bottle.

He wasn't sure whether lemon and honey complemented bourbon, but he added some of each on top of his Earl Grey. Chamomile would have been more appropriate for bed time, but he'd pretty much depleted their stock of that. He was eyeing it skeptically and about to take a hesitant sip when Santana's phone vibrated on the tabletop. She reached for it but shook her finger at him in the process.

"That is not Milady's sippy tea. Toss that puppy," she scolded, then glanced at her phone before flipping his computer back open. He did as he was told, raising a quizzical brow at the same time as he stifled a cough. "Apparently the Bat Signal has gone up."

Of course, Santana knew his password, and when the burn had quieted enough for him to open his eyes, Kurt spun away again in horror to find an open Skype conversation in front of him—Blaine, Sam, and half the glee club all around the piano in Blaine's sitting room.

His hair was a mess, and his eyes were probably red and swollen. He couldn't be seen like that.

"Kurt..." Blaine greeted, his voice soft and consoling. "C'mon, you didn't really think I'd hang up on our date just to hang out with these clowns, did you?"

Kurt sniffled but didn't turn around, his shoulders slumped as he tried to straighten his hair with trembling fingertips. "Blaine, I..."

"No, don't say a word. You are going to take your gorgeous but tired, drooping ass back behind that curtain, put on your pajamas—the silk ones I got you for Christmas with the little pocket in the shirt where I know you like to keep a little sachet spritzed with my aftershave—step into your slippers, and grab that fluffy blanket off the linen rack—you know the one, that one we used to snuggle under while we watched our favorite musicals on your laptop—and then come back out here and get snuggled up on the couch while Santana sets this computer up on the coffee table." A pause as Kurt found his feet somehow cemented to the floor. "Go on. We'll wait."

Kurt did as he was told, taking an extra minute to dab the corners of his eyes and apply some gel for the puffiness before shuffling out to the sofa. He couldn't help but grin when he caught Blaine's eyes over Santana's shoulder, gleaming bright with love and inspiration.

"Okay, now get snuggled up on the end of this couch. Just, I don't know, push Santana down to the other end or throw your feet over her lap or something. It is of utmost importance that you are completely comfy, because I have dragged all of these lovely people away from their neglected homework just to sing you to sleep."

"It's only eight o'clock." Kurt's words objected, but his body sagged into the cushions, nonetheless. "And I still have to moisturize."

There it was again, that adorable head tilt, complete with twinkling eyes and ducked chin that made Kurt melt so completely there wasn't a weight in the world he couldn't slide out from beneath. When the piano plinked the intro, he immediately recognized the song as one that was inspired by the "Hunger Games." Still entertaining the fantasy of becoming a Capitol Stylist in another lifetime, Kurt couldn't even find it in himself to criticize the use of a Taylor Swift song. Sam's accompanying guitar lent it a more mellow, richer timbre than the original, and when Blaine picked up the lyrics, his voice made the song.

( **Safe and Sound, Taylor Swift** )

 _"Don't you dare look out your window, darling everything's on fire_  
 _The war outside our door keeps raging on_  
 _Hold onto this lullaby even when the music's gone, gone."_

By the time Kitty, Marley and Tina picked up the harmonies on the chorus, Kurt was already nearly asleep.

 _"Just close your eyes, the sun is going down_  
 _You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now_  
 _Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound."_

Maybe it was the song, or Blaine's voice singing it. Maybe it was the way Santana pulled his legs across her lap and rubbed back and forth over his shin. It could have been the weeks of broken and restless sleep, and the fear of whatever was on the horizon that kept him ever vigilant. More than likely, it was a combination of all those things, plus the soothing scent of Blaine's aftershave from the sachet in his pocket.

Kurt was asleep before the second chorus, and stayed that way until dawn.

 _"Safe and sound."_

-TBC

AN: I picture Blaine's version of the song to sound to be one of the guy covers you could find on YouTube if this site didn't make it so difficult to share links. And I apologize for the dream. That wasn't even supposed to happen. I was just thinking things were going entirely too well, there, and Kurt was so happy… and then he woke up… and somehow _that_ image of Blaine just came to me.


	22. The Storm

**AN:** Thank you everyone for the kind words over the last few chapters. I was really starting to beat myself up wondering what I was doing wrong. This chapter and the next were originally one chapter, and they were actually the first scenes I wrote of this story and the inspiration that wouldn't let me ignore it. It's only taken me around 200,000 words to get here, but for those of you who are wondering, it's not over yet. There will be at least two more chapters after 23.

 **Warnings:** If you realize where we're at in the timeline, you have a pretty good idea what's about to happen in the Glee!verse. Definitely a Friday episode. The Glee equivalent is Shooting Star. I don't want to give too much away, but Murphy's Law applies. If you're concerned about mental/emotional triggers, I do focus mostly on the physical hurt/injury in this part, but if you were triggered watching the episode, you may be triggered reading about it. Also vomit and a little bathroom humor.

-#-

"Blaine, honey, Sam's outside waiting. You must've forgotten to set your alarm. Do you want me to tell him to go on without you?"

"Uhmn...?" That sounded like a question, which meant he was supposed to respond, but the gray fog in his brain remained too thick to pierce. He barely managed a garbled moan before burrowing deeper into the pillow.

"Blaine! Either you're going with Sam, or I'm taking you, but I need an answer in the next thirty seconds, or we're all going to be late."

Blaine opened his eyes. Even with the pillow pressed up to his face, he could see the edge of the alarm clock display. His heart jolted. That couldn't be right! Squirming within his cocoon of blankets, he smashed the pillow down far enough to get a clear read of the time, then, "Crap!" He flung the covers off and tripped over his own slippers on the way to his closet, the last few minutes of one-sided conversation floating to the surface of his consciousness as he pulled out his clothes, thankful for the first time that he didn't have to waste time coordinating an outfit now that he was a Cheerio. "Tell Sam I'll be down in five minutes." He caught a glimpse of his bed head in the mirror as he pulled on his socks and groaned. "Ten minutes. Make that ten minutes."

"All right, dear," his mom acknowledged. "I'll set out your medication for you. What would you like to eat?"

Reminding himself that it was not his mother's fault that he must've inadvertently turned off his alarm, he clenched his jaw to keep from snapping out that he didn't have time to eat. She would insist, anyway. "English muffin with apple butter?"

Tilting her head, hand on hip, she asked. "Is that a question or an answer?"

This time, he didn't hold back his frustration. "I'd like an English muffin with apple butter, please, Mama. Unless, we don't have any apple butter, then I don't know!"

"I'll make one for Sam, too," she offered.

Closing his eyes, Blaine took a deep breath. "Yes, please. Thank you, Mama."

"You're welcome, dear."

-#-

Blaine stumbled down the stairs seven minutes later, nearly tripping over the one shoe lace he'd forgotten to tie, and skidded up to the kitchen counter. His mother handed him a glass of milk and pushed a plate of toasted English muffins toward him as he swallowed the entire handful of pills she'd laid out for him on the counter. He washed them down with the milk and flung his bag over his shoulder, kissed his mother on the cheek as he took the whole plate with him on his way out the door.

"Make sure you eat that," she called after him. "All of it! Love you, baby."

"Thanks, I will. Love you, too. Bye, Mama."

He managed one bite of his muffin on the jaunt up the driveway to where Sam was waiting in his ancient Buick, and set the plate down on the bench seat beside his bag as he bent to tie his shoe. "Hey, Sam. Sorry I'm late. I must've shut off the alarm."

"No, worries, dude. I have first period study hall, anyway. This for me?"

Without looking up from his hunched position, Blaine replied, "Yeah, sure. My mom made extra." He sat up no more than five seconds later to find Sam with his cheeks pooched out and an expression that was either a grin or just the sad effect of having his mouth too full to close it all the way.

Blaine grimaced. "You didn't seriously put that whole thing in your mouth at once."

Sam shrugged. "ee in a- uwwy." He shook his head, chewed three times and swallowed so forcefully Blaine was pretty sure he could see the muffin moving down his throat all the way until his esophagus passed behind his collar bone. "We're in a hurry," a second swallow, "and I don't eat and drive. It's not safe."

"And swallowing an entire English muffin..." Blaine looked down at the plate to see only the half that he'd taken a bite out of remained, "make that one and a half English muffins, in one gulp is?"

Sam threw the car into gear, and it lurched away from the curb as he slipped the clutch. "Hey, Santana might've given me a lot of crap for it, but this mouth definitely has its advantages."

"Just so you know, half of that was mine."

"Sorry, bro. I'll make it up to you at lunch."

Blaine chuckled. "Don't worry about it. I have a granola bar in my bag."

"Fine," Sam dismissed. "More chili cheese tots for me."

"Like you would ever put that in your body, Mr. Broga." Blaine scoffed.

"Hey, man, the world didn't end. Tomorrow I'm back on raw veggies and baked chicken breasts, but today I'm a southern boy, and I need my chili cheese tots."

"With or without beans?" Blaine asked, squinting.

"Whatever they have in the cafeteria," Sam shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"It does if I'm riding home with you."

"No worries," Sam grinned. "Pop the glove box and look inside."

Blaine did. "You keep Bean-o in your glove compartment?"

"Dude, as much raw vegetables as I put in here," he said, patting his stomach, "I'm practically a ruminant animal. Trust me, you and I would not be friends if I didn't pop those things like Tic-tacs."

Blaine dropped his head back against the seat belt harness. "That is way too much information." His hand dropped to the door handle as Sam pulled up to the front of the school. "Hey, thanks for the ride. See you at lunch."

"Yeah, thanks for the breakfast."

"Thanks for not eating the plate," Blaine teased, and with a quick shrug, hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and got out just as the warning bell rang. "Crap!"

-#-

Halfway through his first period English Composition class, Blaine realized he should probably eat that granola bar sooner rather than later. The antibiotics they had him on were even worse than the anti-inflammatories when it came to making him want to toss his cookies, or in this case, his half an English muffin. He pulled his bag out from under his chair and tried to discretely rummage through the pockets, but after coming up empty-handed, he laid it out on top of the desk and gave it the full once over, already swallowing convulsively to keep his rolling stomach from climbing out his throat. Only after Miss Walker shot him an irritated glance did he remember finishing off his last granola bar after Cheerios practice two days ago. The mental note he'd made to replace it was, unfortunately not going to do him much good at that point, his mouth already flooding with more saliva than he could possibly swallow fast enough to stave off the inevitable.

He lurched out of his seat, clapping a hand over his mouth and leaving his bag and all of its contest scattered on the desktop as he made a mad dash for the nearest bathroom. The door would've hit the wall, had it not had a pneumatic door closer affixed to prevent that exact occurrence. The slight resistance it offered and he pushed through followed by the slow hiss as it shut behind him failed to convey just how urgent the situation at hand was. Sneakers slapping against cold linoleum, and eyes watering, he almost let fly into the urinal but didn't want to be _that guy_ and kept his hand clasped over his mouth as he threw himself against the door to the first stall. That one had no means by which to prevent it from crashing into the wall. The slam caused the entire thing to vibrate in the frame, the raucous just enough to mask the first retch as he lost his meager breakfast. The room was eerily silent for the next three or four gurgling heaves and the final two dry ones, the bathroom acoustics creating an echo that layered the sound. It wasn't until after the last splash and the subsequent echo died out that he realized there were feet under the door of the stall beside him.

"Um, for the purposes of full disclosure, and because I can see your uniform under the door, was that or was that not the effect of the Cleanse that Coach Sylvester allegedly forces on her Cheerios?" The whimpering voice that broke the settling quiet was unmistakably that of Jacob Ben Israel. "And if so, would you be willing to go on record to that effect? I may or may not have a recording device in my Jewfro."

Great. The one witness to his performance just happened to be the biggest gossip in the whole school. Blaine could already hear the cracks about morning sickness he was undoubtedly going to be subjected to for the rest of the day. He wiped his mouth before flushing and dragging himself to his feet. "No, Jacob. Just bad eggs, I guess."

Jacob's response was some kind of incoherent grunt followed by something much more putrid that almost set him to puking all over again. "S-sorry," Jacob squeaked. "There's a reason I wait until the middle of first period to drop the kids off at the pool."

Seriously, Blaine's day could not possibly get any worse.

-#-

By lunch, Blaine was ravenous and actually not feeling much worse for wear. While he didn't let Sam pay, even after he showed up to their shared fourth period class mildly frantic with worry because he'd heard from Tina who'd heard from Kitty who'd heard from that Cheerio with the neck brace that Blaine was going to miss practice that day because he was dehydrated from spending all morning puking, he did make a show of downing half a plate of chili cheese tots and two cartons of milk to convince him that there were no hard feelings about having his breakfast swiped. He had to admit, they were pretty good, if a little heavy on the grease.

His phone buzzed from the pocket of messenger bag, and he grinned at finding a text from Kurt.

 **Kurt:** Guess the world really didn't end. Just wanted you to know that I slept all night. Overslept in fact. I'm blaming Santana's irish tea for that. Good luck with the new song. It's perfect. Text me as soon as you get home. Love you so much.

He fired off a reply, knowing full well he was blushing, his cheeks lifted so high around his grin, he could actually feel his own eyelashes when he blinked.

 **Blaine:** Just so long as you didn't dream about Taylor Swift. Heading to the choir room now. You know that song is about you, too. And good luck on your test today. Text you soon. Miss you and love you.

He'd barely sent the message when his phone buzzed again.

 **Kurt:** Wrong Taylor. And your version is better than hers anyway. Thanks. Break a leg.

When he walked into the choir room, stoked to perform his first original song, he was starting to think that the day hadn't turned out so bad after all.

In fact, what had been a pretty bumpy year, in general, finally seemed to have smoothed out to what could pass for normal turbulence, that morning's air sickness aside. That's what the song was about, the safe place to land he'd found here, and how lucky he was to have each and every one of them as friends. If Tubbington Bop had come to fruition, he could say with fair certainty that he'd found his way home before it hit, and he wanted them to know that there was no other group of people he'd rather stand on a beach and face down a tsunami with.

While his accompanying pianist gig for the New Directions was not the position he'd have preferred, given a choice, he did like that the half hour before Glee practice was free in the choir room. He could pound out whatever frustrations of the day needed to be worked out before the rest of the club showed up, and today he needed the whole thirty minutes to make sure the song was perfect. During his final run-through, it all fell into place, and he couldn't hold back any longer.

Today the thrum was back, just a little of the intensity. He'd missed it. Like coming home.

( **To Have a Home, Darren Criss** )

 _Home_  
 _I've heard the word before_  
 _It's never meant much more_  
 _Than just a thing I've never had_

 _A place_  
 _They say, hey, know your place_  
 _But I've never had a place to even know_  
 _Or a face that I could go to_  
 _If I needed someone there..._

The music flowed today like it hadn't for months. His fingers moved as if the music controlled them, no longer disconnected and sluggish. He felt awake, his head buzzing like he'd just stepped out into an Arctic front, shocked alive with light and sound and... life, like himself for the first time in so, so long.

Okay, so maybe he overreached just a little with that last breath. His throat closed around it a bit too abruptly, but he didn't want to leave any room for interpretation with this one. This was his heart on his sleeve. He cleared his throat silently and kept going.

 _I'm laughing_  
 _It's hard to hide a smile_  
 _My god, it's been a while_  
 _Since I have had a reason to_

 _To think_  
 _It's been here all along_

This time he actually coughed. His breath control really was suffering from his lack of physical activity, and singing from a bench was never as efficient as singing while standing anyway.

 _Somewhere to belong_  
 _And a reason_  
 _A something to believe in..._

 _I've finally found it_  
 _A place where I'm wanted..._  
 _This must be how it feels_  
 _To have a home_

 _I used to dream about it_  
 _But never schemed or counted_  
 _On fantasies or wishes_  
 _It breaks a man to see what he misses_

His heart fluttered, a mix of nostalgia, some bitter, some sweet, and a longing to feel like this forever that warred with the ache to start the next chapter. It wasn't until he reached deep for the breath to carry him through the bridge that he thought maybe the flutter was none of that at all.

 _And so many nights I'd pray_  
 _For a better life, and a better day_  
 _But I never thought that it'd come true_  
 _It's finally here and I don't know what to do..._  
 _And I'm trying not to cry_

Startled, the reverie dissipated instantaneously, the sensation of riding the edge replaced with that of falling off. His stomach lurched, throat tightening all the way down into his chest. He stopped playing with a discordant clunk, snapping to attention. As soon as he stopped humming, the tickle became more of a buzz, and he barked harshly, lips pinched shut behind a fist. Inadvertently massaging his breast bone as he locked eyes with the rest of the group who'd been trickling in through the last verse.

Blaine took a second to catch his breath, humming quietly to himself to keep the tickle down low in his chest from forcing its way to the surface. He took a moment to regain his composure. It wasn't out of place, really. He always got emotional at that point, even though now it was more because everyone was there, and he wanted to give them their song. But he was no longer blaming the tightness in his throat on poor breath support or the flutter in his chest on emotion.

 _This must be how it feels_  
 _To have a home_

 _I've finally made it_  
 _I've hoped and I've waited_  
 _And for the first time in my life_  
 _I don't feel so alone_

 _My heart starts to heal_  
 _To know this is real_  
 _This is how it must feel_  
 _To have a home..._

By the time he lifted his head, the room was full, and it seemed like his song was a hit by the way Tina and Marley were dabbing at their eyes. Normally, he'd rush over with hugs and a tissue, but at the moment, he kind of wanted to get out of there before he made a scene he hadn't learned the choreography for yet.

He gave everyone his best 'aww, shucks' head tilt and hastily pulled his bag out from under the bench.

"Blaine that was..." he jumped as Mr. Schue patted him on the shoulder from behind. "Whoah, didn't mean to sneak up on you there," Mr. Schue apologized. Blaine turned, pulling his bag over his shoulder and nearly collided with Coach Beiste where she was standing at Will's shoulder. Noting the bag, Schue said, "We're just about ready to get started." There was that same searching look Blaine had come to despise. "You okay?"

"Yeah, uh, no actually." He hacked twice, dry and scraping before soothing it away with a hum. "Hmmm, uh, sorry Mr. Schue. I need to..." He reached in his pocket for his phone and pulled up the Medtronic app as discretely as possible and flashed it to Schuester, hoping he'd get the hint without making a fuss.

Will's eyes widened slightly, but he nodded. "We'll get the band to accompany. Hope you make it back before the end. Should be some great performances."

Blaine knew that there were, since he'd seen most of them the night before. He just ducked his head in thanks and dropped his shoulder to squeeze past with a muttered "Thanks."

Will didn't press further. Instead, he patted Blaine on the shoulder and turned to address the room.

"All right. Let's get started."

Schue's clap (BANG!) was too loud, electrified the air around them.

Everyone suddenly lurched upright in their chairs, wondering if they'd all heard the same thing. Blaine's hand froze on the doorknob. In the hallway, someone screamed, footsteps trailing behind it. Then a second clap—BANG!—that wasn't a clap at all, and they leapt for cover, Coach Beiste and Mr. Schue directing everyone into the shadows and dimming the lights. Blaine had slammed the door and was reaching for the lock when Finn pushed his way in and finished the job.

Blaine dropped his phone, driven by some instinct to push the piano into the corner. Finn leaned a shoulder in beside him, and together they moved the makeshift barricade close to the wall before diving behind it, the world a cacophony of footsteps and screaming. Doors rattled, slammed, and then, like a book crashing shut on the story inside, silence. A reverse thunderclap swallowed everything back up into the eye of the swirling storm.

Except for.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

A metronome had fallen sometime during the chaos and punctuated the silence, up-tempo and driving despite the stillness.

And.

"Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm," Blaine did his best to stifle the cough, dread pooling in his core as he tried to calm his rogue heartbeat, too aware that it should have slowed by now, the tickle more of an itch, one that he'd have scratched raw by now if he could reach it. Blaine continued to hum through the sensation, eyes and jaw clamped shut in an attempt to stay quiet inside and out.

Crouched behind the piano next to Artie, Blaine knew Mr. Schue was speaking, but couldn't hear what he was saying over the roar in his ears.

If his heart pounded a little too hard, a little too fast, so too was everyone else's. They were all in trouble, not just himself.

Shooter. There was a shooter. In the school.

"Hmm, hmmm, hmmm..."

Of course, Blaine's heart pounded. Of course, he couldn't breathe. No one could breathe. They'd used up all the air. No one could see through the shadows and haze of tears. He wasn't the only one shaking, vision greying out while he fought to breathe around a fist clenching in his chest.

Funny how the sudden threat of death made him feel a little too alive.

"Hmm, hmmm, hmmm..."

Blaine struggled to find an even keel, but every sensation was either too much or too little, a live wire at the edge of a stagnant pond, just waiting for something to close the connection. Legs pulled into his chest, he tried to ground himself out, forehead pressed into his kneecaps, eyes clenched. He couldn't tell if the echo in his head was because everything outside was quiet or because everything inside was too loud. Each shortened, panting breath sounded like furniture sliding over carpet. The friction started to limit the amount of air he could pull in, every molecule charged with static and threatening to burst out at the same time. Harder to breathe in, harder yet to control the exhale with a hum.

"Hmm," cough, "hmmm," cough.

His chest convulsed, at war with itself and everything inside it.

Across from him, Artie had his phone out, the light filtering in through Blaine's eyelids—something about people needing to see this, just in case—

His phone. Blaine needed his phone. He squinted into the darkened room, as much to focus outward as inward, too aware of his empty hands and pockets. His memory queued up a sound byte, the clatter of hard plastic hitting the linoleum, and Blaine knew where to look. He ducked down to look under the piano and thought he could barely make out the rectangular shadow of his phone on the other side of his makeshift barricade. Fighting back the hacking cough by closing the back of his throat to force them out through his nose, he lunged to his hands and knees, bruises almost instantaneous and he speed crawled around the piano and out into the room proper.

"Blaine! No!" Vaguely aware of a tug and constriction around his ankle, he lunged forward the last few feet, arm outstretched so that his elbow slammed into the floor, his forearm barely protecting his chin from doing the same as Finn latched on, his arms as ridiculously long as the rest of him.

"Need my phone," he pleaded around spasmed breaths. Stretching for an extra inch, his fingertips landed on the phone case, just enough friction in the sweat-dampened whorls to drag it in closer to his palm and grab onto it before he found himself reeled back into the alcove behind the piano, pulled up and then pushed back into his huddled posture, phone settling atop his knees.

The physical exertion made it nearly impossible for him to stifle his quaking breath, and he knew he was making too much noise as he woke up the phone and opened the app. The brightness sliced past his half-closed eyelashes, searing into his retinas, but Blaine could barely lift his head to fend off the glare, his energy wasted on breathing instead.

"Hm," cough, "Hm," cough, cough.

"Dude, what is going on with you?" Sam's eyes reflected intensely from just above his lower lash line, brighter with emotion than the darkness could conceal.

Blaine shook his head to ward off the questions, no energy left to explain. Eyes watering with the exertion, he squinted at the screen, mostly finding the icon to initiate a manual interrogation by memory, since he couldn't actually read anything. He recognized the change in color scheme that indicated the app was 'talking' to the ICD and leaned his head back against the lacquered wood to wait for the scan to complete.

BANG!

"Blaine!"

-TBC

 **AN:** I obviously don't own the song, and I know everyone else uses "Not Alone," but I don't like that one nearly as much as "To Have a Home."

 **AN:** The second part of this chapter will be posted tomorrow, and since it's not Kurt's POV, it's definitely not a dream.


	23. Lockdown

**AN:** I have no idea how long it would take from the time of a school going on lockdown until the 'All Clear' is given, and they didn't do anything to indicate the passage of time on the episode, so I was left guessing. I've never been in that situation, but have been in the vicinity of bomb threats before which took at least a couple of hours to clear, if not half a day. I'm thinking, if the SWAT team has to check every possible hiding place in the school, it would take them quite a while to give the 'All Clear' and to be honest, I needed to drag it out as long as possible, so I did.

 **Warnings:** Lockdown scenario, medical emergency, slight profanity.

-#-

Well, wasn't this a fine pickle?

"Becky, you have to listen to me, okay?" Normally, Sue was about not stooping down, about addressing Becky eye to eye, not treating her like a child, but this was one time when she would invite no argument, and from the panicked expression in her eyes, she knew Becky couldn't form one if she tried. Sue stooped down, hand on Becky's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Coach! I didn't mean to." Becky's face was beet red, her eyes crinkled around tears as Sue picked up the gun.

"I know you didn't mean it. I know you didn't, but Becky, no one out there is going to understand that."

Becky's gaze dropped to her feet, her shoulders starting to shake. "I'm s-s-s-sorry."

"Listen, now. I'm going to take care of this. So, you listen to me, honey." She waited for Becky to meet her eyes again before continuing. "You are going to walk out here, right out the side door and right around front where everyone else is going to be meeting. You don't know anything about this. Do you understand me?"

She waited again as Becky nodded.

"No matter what happens, you don't know anything about it. I'm going to move a few things around in here, and then I'll be right out there with you. You got it?"

"But Coach, won't the school be on lockdown?"

"It will," Sue nodded, "But that's to keep people out of the shooter's path. You and I both know there is no shooter."

Becky nodded again.

"Now scoot!" Sue gave her a quick hug before shoving her toward the door. "Don't stop until you get all the way to the front of the building, and not a word about this to anyone."

Watching through the cracked doorway, Sue waited until Becky shifted into a higher gear of shuffling walk and disappeared around the corner before shutting the door and springing to action. Her hands quaked as she pressed her fingers to her temples, willing the images of the past minutes to the front of her mind's eye. She struggled to remember exactly where the gun had been pointing when it went off but was able to conjure up a memory of it in every possible orientation when she thought about it hard enough. Damn, traitorous brain. This was exactly why eye witness testimony was so unreliable.

Abandoning that route, she opened her eyes and frantically searched the room for anything that looked remotely out of place. Almost immediately, her gaze landed on the tiny pink blanket draped over the arm of her chair where she'd left it after Grace took Robin home from her lunchtime visit. She liked having the smell of her baby waft over her while she wrote in her journal and visualized her next routine. It was almost as good as having her baby there.

Here.

Her baby was here, not two hours ago.

And then she had to sit.

She collapsed into her chair and leaned over her desk, the baby blanket wrapped between her fists as she buried her nose between the folds, breathing deep of her daughter, her daughter who was home and safe and most definitely not here. Not anymore.

Oh God, what just happened?

For a second, then a minute, and then several long minutes, she forgot the urgency, forgot that she needed to fix this and then get out before the police descended. All that mattered for one minute, then two, was the relief sandwiched between the recognition of the horrible thing that had just happened there and the much more terrifying things that could have. She let herself cry then, not because she had the time, but because she knew that no one would walk in on her and see.

-#-

BANG!

Not a clap, this time.

Blaine's forehead bashed against his kneecap, neck whiplashed.

Not a gunshot, either, though a bullet couldn't have hit him any harder. His feet sprawled out, leaving him unsteady, exposed, and another flash of light exploded behind his eyelids as his head impacted the floor.

The jarring motion both dazed him and simultaneously freed one bubble of clarity from the thickening sludge of consciousness.

ICD.

A shock.

Shit.

The darkness washed over him, and everything but the tick-tock, tick-tock of the metronome muted to nothing.

-#-

Once the tears stopped, their tracks wiped with a tissue and dropped into the trash beside her desk, Sue found a calm, a clarity of purpose that drew her almost instantly to the poof of white protein powder dusted over the file cabinet, its plastic jar punctured with a perfect hole that went all the way through to the wall behind. The powder left a trail into the bottom drawer of her file cabinet where she stowed it away, using the actual key to that drawer for probably the first time ever.

It took a little longer to cover the hole in the wall. Her standby trick, learned during her stay in the college dorms decades before the horrors of school shootings were a thing, wouldn't work there, since she didn't think anyone made a deep grey shade of toothpaste. Moving a poster from the bulletin board to a spot on the wall was easier said than done, and she was forced to use plain old Scotch tape to hold it in place, praying silently that it held up long enough for her to come up with a better fix –maybe a plaque or something.

If the poster happened to be a public service announcement about STDs that compared unprotected sex to playing Russian Roulette, then so be it. She wasn't feeling very ironic at the moment.

-#-

 _"Blaine! Mr. Schue!" voices down a thread and into the Dixie cup of stale air of the vacuum that surrounded him, barely audible through the crackling static in his head._

There'd been pamphlets, glossy paper paid for by your generous donations to the American Heart Association, some online videos and testimonials to prepare him for what a possible shock from the ICD would feel like. 'Like getting kicked by a horse,' they said. He'd been kicked by a horse. This was worse. A 'thump'. A 'jolt.' 'Disturbing but not painful.' 'Momentary loss of consciousness was possible.'

What a crock.

Blaine hurt. His chest felt like it was being inverted by his lungs, and the blessed loss of consciousness was far too momentary. He had no idea how long he was out, but he was more than aware of hands on him, dragging him back to the surface.

"Is he hit?"

"Who saw what happened?"

"Blaine?"

Glancing touches all over his body, he was patted down; faces swam into focus above him. He wanted to tell them to just stop. Leave him be. Give him some space.

He was suffocating.

Instead, all he could manage was to draw his knees up to his chest and push himself back against the wall on spindly noodle arms, livid with sensation and desperate to climb inside himself.

"Blaine?" Mr. Schue knelt in front of him, propping him in a more solid position against the wall, fingers ghosting over the pulse in his neck. "Talk to me, son. What's going on? Are you hit?"

Blaine brushed the hand away, head shaking as he let it fall back into the wall. Try as he might, there was no pulling in enough air to answer, teeth grinding with the effort of not screaming.

As much time as he'd spent imagining what the shock might feel like when/if it came (and he was awake enough to feel it), he'd somehow managed to get it wrong on every count, the worst of which being that he felt no better on the other side of it. Wasn't the whole point of the thing to reset his heartbeat to something approaching normal? Why did he feel ready to splinter into a million shards of broken light, barely there at all and floating?

"There's no blood. I don't think he's shot." The voice sounded vaguely like Sam's, but it might have been Finn. It was hard to tell since everyone was crying now, sure they were witnessing one of their own take a hit, any one of them next in the line of fire, eyes frantically searching for the imagined sniper.

Okay. Okay, they needed to shut up already. No one was dying. No one was going to die. They needed to shut up. Just shut up!

"'M fine," he bit out.

A collective sigh of relief, quieter keening sniffles smoothed over the choking sobs.

"What's going on, Blaine?" Mr. Schuester pressed, one hand on Blaine's knee, the other hovering in case Blaine tipped one way or the other.

His hand wavered off the ground before his foggy mind located it in space then thumped over his chest. "ICD shock, I think."

"Wait, your heart? Are you...?" Schue's jaw spasmed, his eyes darting around the room, clearly having trouble switching gears from keeping everyone inside and safe to getting someone out and alive. "Is this...?"

Blaine held up a finger, begging for a moment before massaging at his chest in an effort to work loose the knots binding his rib bones to his lungs. A cold bead of sweat dripped off the end of his nose, the Cheerios top underneath his palm suddenly damp and clingy. He was so thirsty, his tongue thick and sticky in his mouth. He felt his muscles start to slacken. Despite his best efforts to stay upright, the grey edges of his vision started to close in.

BANG!

-#-

Sue was still searching for the second bullet hole when she heard footsteps and caught a glimpse of a SWAT team uniform through the window in her door. Either the Emergency response in this town was way faster than the national average, or she'd spent more time crying in her moment of weakness than she'd realized. She glanced at the clock and mentally calculated how long it had been since she looked up to welcome Becky into her office. Though it hadn't actually been a lifetime ago, it had been at least forty-five minutes, which meant the school had probably been locked down for close to forty. She'd somehow slipped through a time warp and lost the better part of an hour, and she hadn't even completed the task at hand.

She looked lower for the second bullet hole, turning so slowly as to keep the world from righting itself by unwinding around her with a flash of funhouse strobe lighting every time she blinked.

The second shot went off when the gun hit the floor, so it would've been angled upward...

If it hit the far wall, it would have travelled farther, would be higher up...

And there it was. The bullet had travelled through one of her Nationals plaques, spared from falling off the wall by the industrial cement screws used to fasten it. The hole itself was camouflaged by the dark color of the lacquered wood, but once she saw it, the blemish was obvious, and not something she could cover with a poster. Even if she had a screwdriver on hand to remove the plaque, the empty space with a bullet hole in the middle would've been more obvious than the marred award. The upward trajectory of the bullet made the hole oblique to the wall, adding shadow as another layer of camouflage. In the end, she decided it best to just place a trophy in front of it for the time being.

Then there was the matter of the gun.

-#-

This time Mr. Schue caught Blaine before he could brain himself again and lowered him safely down onto his back, denied the bliss of passing out a second time.

A second shock.

But that wasn't supposed to happen. Not in such close proximity, anyway.

And still, Blaine couldn't catch his breath, his entire world gravel and char, a jagged black abyss of pain. He imagined this was what it felt like to depressurize in space. His scream couldn't be held back this time, but in the vacuum it was little more than a grunt, his throat exploding as he arched off the floor, instincts set on flight. The grunt turned into a choke, morphed into half a sob, as much anger as pain.

"Holy shit!" Finn clutched at his shoulder, what was probably meant to be a reassuring presence more akin to a fingernail grip over the edge of a chasm. "Mr. Schue!"

"I don't think that's supposed to happen." Artie's voice was startlingly close to his ear, and Blaine opened his eyes to see the other boy had dragged himself across the few feet of floor between them and was propped on an elbow looking down at him, Blaine's phone on the floor in front of him. His free hand slid under Blaine's jaw, looking for the pulse point. Blaine batted him away as Coach Beiste slid in beside Mr. Schuester, pushing Finn and Sam aside. Artie showed them the phone. "I think this app is talking to the... thingamagadget in his chest. I just started a scan or something. Maybe it will tell us what's going on."

Mr. Schue took the phone from Artie and helped him get back to his original spot as Coach Beiste talked to Blaine. "Hey, there, Punkin'," she soothed. "Can you look at me?"

Blaine tried but found it difficult to focus on one point of anything. What wasn't blurred out by the encroaching grey, doubled and tripled, daring him to find true north with only the broken compass of his brain and everything softened like the mossy side of a tree. His jaw tightened, the force of his panting breaths whooshing in and out of the pocket of air between his teeth and his cheek; his own breathing warred with the metronome to set the pace of the scene, though he could hardly hear it between the ringing of his own ears and the crescendoing sobs of the other Glee members.

He couldn't control it. Couldn't control his breath, his eyes, his voice, his ears, none of it, and the frustration started to build in his stomach, heat rising in his face as the anger and humiliation screamed out of his burning throat like so much vomit. Somewhere in the cacophony of warring sensations, the familiar tickle of the pacemaker triggered a barking cough that ripped out of him, shaking his whole body with the force of a cannon blast.

"Blaine," Beiste took his head between her hands and locked eyes with him, though he could feel his own trying to escape capture by rolling back into his head. She countered by tipping his chin down a little more, lowering her own face closer to his, all dark lipstick and white teeth, but steady, a quiet pull in her voice that muted the piercing chaos.

"Son, you need to calm down. Okay? Just breathe and let us take care of you. Got that?" She started taking exaggerated breaths herself so her entire chest cavity and shoulders expanded and contracted until the rhythm pulled him to the surface, started to mirror her actions, each breath working like a windshield wiper over slowly defrosting glass.

When the tinnitus quieted to a barely there dog whistle, he blinked experimentally. Some of the fog pushed back, allowing Beiste's face and words to filter into focus.

"You with me, there, darlin'?"

Blaine nodded, keeping his eyes shut against the jarring motion.

"Do you know what's happening? Is this part of your heart condition?" she asked.

"I-I think so," he rasped. "It's never happened before. I don't know... why."

"You have an internal defibrillator, is that right?"

His response was mostly just a jump in his voice box, a quake in his Adam's apple, stifled and punctuated by a short nod.

"Has it discharged?"

A similar response, this time paired with a hand gesture, two fingers in a quaking V.

"Twice?" Beiste clarified, taking the hand and feeling for a pulse. "It's racing," she said, pressing a hand to his chest like she could tell what was going on inside just by feel. "Is that normal? Two shocks so close together?"

Blaine was suddenly made aware of the blazing heat that radiated off his skin by the sharp contrast between it and the icy tendrils that slithered from the corners of his eyes, their riverbeds already dry and cracked by the time the tears trickled into his hairline.

"No," he choked, swallowed tears pooling in the back of his throat.

Not supposed to happen. Not supposed to happen. Not supposed to happen.

Mr. Schuester lowered his head, mouth close to the coach's ear and whispered much too loudly to go undetected, "The phone says to call 911 immediately."

Not supposed to happen. Not supposed to happen. Not supposed to happen.

"Press..." Blaine waited for a deeper breath to drag reluctantly into his lungs. "Press the upload icon. It'll send the results to MedLink and they'll relay them to Emergency Services... for when," his eyes darted around, darkness cloyingly claustrophobic, "for when they let them in."

Mr. Schuester studied the phone frantically for a second, then punched the screen with his forefinger. "Done." He slumped back against the wall, letting his whole hand, cell included flop onto his lap, resigned. "We gotta get you outta here. Where is that 'all clear'?!"

-#-

Seated back at her desk with the gun laid out in front of her, Sue felt an odd calm chill through her veins. The safety wasn't even on. Of course it wasn't. Becky took the gun to feel safe and didn't even know how to put the safety on.

Opening the desk drawer, she frowned at the keypad to unlock the hidden lockbox inside. She'd had it installed to hide things like drunken voicemail recordings from Will Schuester and mini DV evidence of Figgins' secret (and staged by Sue herself) liaison with the local leader of the NeoNazi party. She wedged the gun in beside the Pez dispenser filled with the nefariously distributed Vitamin D she'd confiscated from one of her Cheerios. She'd intended to planting it in the locker of one Finn Hudson right before last year's trip to Nationals in order to get him suspended but decided it was too sleazy, even for her, to frame a student for drug possession.

Closing and locking the safe, she folded her hands atop the desk, looking for all the world like it was just another day of waiting for some unlucky student to present his or her lazy backside for a proper injection of reality in the form of cold, hard truth and heavily laced with bitter, bitter disappointment.

The shell casings shoved deep into the pocket of her track suit dug into her thigh, a constant reminder that this wasn't just another day at the office, and every student on the other side of that door was cowering in fear because of what went down in here. Given the circumstances, it took a little longer for her to slip back into her skin. As she waited for it to shrink wrap itself back into place, the clock above her head ground into the next hour, and she jumped right out of it again when the bell rang.

Grinding her teeth and cursing whoever had overlooked disarming the bells as part of the lockdown protocol, Sue sat for another fifteen minutes waiting for the 'all clear' before she decided an hour and a half waiting for fate to reveal itself was an hour and a half wasted and not like her at all. There was a reason faculty members could disarm the electronic locks with their badges.

"Screw this."

She strolled out into the hall and straight out the nearest Exit.

-#-

"I could climb out the window," Sam suggested. "If someone could boost me, I could shimmy through, run around to the front of the building and bring the EMTs back here."

"That could work," Artie colluded.

"No, let me do it," Finn offered. "I promised Kurt I'd look out for him."

"You'd never fit," Sam argued.

Blaine fought back another cough, struggling to sit up. "Or you could get shot, if not by the shooter, then by the police when you come charging out."

Schue pressed him flat into the floor even though Blaine wanted nothing more than to curl up and die, for all of this to just be over. There hadn't been another shock since the second, but he could still feel the tingle and promise of the pacemaker working overtime, his head throbbing in time with the jumping artery behind his jaw, stuffed and foggy like it was too full, no room for even ions to pass. His whole body had started to shake half an hour ago, his face and fingertips like ice.

Blaine's phone vibrated with an incoming text. Mr. Schuester looked at it and mimed tossing it across the room. "What part of, 'we're on lockdown,' do they not understand?" The specialists from Medtronic had been texting frantically since receiving the upload after the second shock, prompting them to get medical attention immediately and asking for updates every ten minutes, which they were presumably relaying to emergency services. "We're already doing everything we can."

"Which is basically nothing!" Sam huffed. "You guys gotta let me try the window. I'm not gonna just sit here and wait for..." he got cut off by the emotion in his own voice and ducked his head away, thumb conspicuously brushing at the corner of his eye.

Blaine's hand found his wrist, head shaking. "'m not going to die. Even if this thing has to zap me a hundred times. Everyone knows..." he gritted his teeth against a particularly sharp tingle in his chest, certain he was about to get jolted for a third time, but breathed through it, "...Wolverine can't do anything without Cyclops."

"Only because Cyclops is a bossy S.O.B. who won't let anyone else be in charge."

"Worse than Rick Grimes," Artie agreed.

"Well, I am..." A harsh cough doubled him over on his side, "I _am_ the new Rachel." He attempted a sardonic laugh but since the second shock, it felt like every muscle in his ribcage had locked up along with the ones across his shoulder blades. God, it hurt. His jaw locked and he grunted through the pain, knocking his forehead against his knees in an effort to either distract himself from the pain or knock himself the fuck out. He felt Mr. Schuester's hand on his sternum in an effort to help him lie flat again.

"Nnnngggh." Blaine didn't know if the scream was a response to the pain or in retaliation against the tears he couldn't keep at bay. Several long seconds later, an unfamiliar quake rumbled in his belly, ricocheted through the sludge between his rib bones and windpipe. He didn't realize what it was until it peeled up the corners of his lips and burbled out.

A laugh. Laughing. Oh God, it burned, but it roiled out, left him choking on the dry dust of it.

"Blaine, dude," Sam crept up beside him. "You wanna share the joke?"

" 'ts not me," Blaine chortled, the fist around his heart warring with the laugh to control the air supply, "It's not me."

"What's not?" Sam knelt beside him, a hand at the back of Blaine's neck.

"S-someone's shooting up the place," he laughed, "and it's not me." Blaine tensed, a stab of cold steel tightening around his ribcage. He bucked against it, heels digging into the floor as he gasp-laughed, "Not me."

"That's right, bro, because you're one of the good guys," and dipping down to make sure Blaine could still hear as his eyes snapped shut, the roar in his ears getting louder again, "and you're NOT crazy."

Coach Beiste pushed Schuester's hand away where it had Blaine pinned against the floor, and Blaine felt himself curl up, lift up, crush in against her chest as he convulsed with too much, too much, too much, chaos, fear, agony. He let her wrap him up, knowing he had to let it go or lose his mind instead, tried to go limp, his whole body trembling beyond his control as he laughed until he cried.

"Make it stop. _Please_."

-#-

By the time she strolled into the parking lot at the front of the school, Sue's air of superiority was firmly fixed in place once more. She slipped in behind a throng of students huddled together in a prayer circle, her hands clasped behind her back as she assumed the aura of someone who'd been waiting there the whole time, a benevolent authority figure, there to keep the throngs reassured and the panic at bay. She didn't even see Becky bust through the crowd until she was firmly wrapped in a waist high hug.

"Coach! You made it."

Sue petted the back of Becky's hair and smiled. "I told you I would, didn't I?" Breaking her own rule for the second time that day, she stooped down to Becky's eye level and grasped her shoulders. "You haven't said anything to anyone, right?"

Becky shook her head. "But Coach..."

"No. I'm handling it, okay? They can't even prove there was a gun, and they're not going to find one. At the end of this all, they'll have to conclude it was probably firecrackers or a rogue car backfire. All you have to do is stand here with me and wait for them to give up the search, okay?"

"But Coach..." Becky turned herself in Sue's grasp and pointed to some sort of ruckus happening at the front of the crowd where a uniformed SWAT officer and a pair of EMTs seemed to be exchanging words in a heated fashion.

Intrigued more than alarmed, Sue strolled over to where the action was, the students having been shoved out of her way enough times in the past that they just parted like the Red Sea in front of her.

"As former Principal and acting School Board Liaison (a title she just made up off the top of her head) I demand to know what this kerfuffle is about."

-#-

At some point, not as long after the second shock as Blaine would've hoped, Beiste's reassurances and slightly twanging encouragements stopped making any sense. Vowels, consonants, and diphthongs that tried to rob an extra syllable from a language he wasn't sure he still spoke, slipped under the rising tide of static and deep fryer crackling in his head. The wave of sounds sloshed back and forth inside the over-stretched balloon membrane that trapped everything inside so every every vibration was recycled and erratic, his brain always too close or too far to make sense of any one in a the wake of a thousand doppler halos.

He was aware, somehow, that people had stopped talking to him, mostly by the way they ducked their gazes and sat back away from his ever-shrinking tunnel of vision, their voices more of a hiss as they attempted to whisper.

Instead, they talked about him, which was not only stupid but unnecessary. There was nothing they could do for him that wasn't being done. They were the ones the shooter was going to come for, not the guy already pathetically laid out on the floor.

He thought maybe he was talking. His lips were moving, anyway. It was hard to tell anymore if there were words or just some noise his body was making of its own accord, some dissonant feedback in the reverb speaker. If he had to guess, it was somewhere between a cough, a pant, and a hum, but it couldn't have been all that loud since he couldn't hear it over the noise in his head. He felt like he was screaming, but if he was, surely someone would've tackled him by now and shoved something down his throat to shut him up. They'd have to. To save themselves.

He shut his eyes.

 _We need to get this kid out of here. If that thing was going to fix him, it would've done it by now. I think we're just in damage control mode at this point, and doing a craptastic job at that._

 _We can't compromise the rest of the group. We have to wait for the 'all clear.'_

 _I say we snag one of those SWAT guys when they come past here and show him first hand what we're dealing with in here._

 _Dispatch is receiving all of this information. They're keeping everyone apprised of the situation._

 _Make sure they apprise them that, if anything happens to this kid, I will not be removing my tube socks before I shove my foot…_

Blaine's eyes flew open. Something was wrong. Something different was wrong. Where his whole body felt like rubber lead, heavy and uncoordinated, something in his center was tight, knotted up and rising…fast!

He lurched over, summoning whatever control he had of his limbs to roll drunkenly to one side before his stomach kicked, ejecting its contents into a rancid puddle beneath the piano. He barely had the wherewithal to spit and turn away before he was hauled back against the wall. A bottle of water was pressed to his lips and he choked on the first trickle before he swallowed, too thirsty to care about rinsing his mouth. He felt it slide down, a long vein of ice all the way into his core like he was empty inside, cold and already dead.

He almost wished he was.

But it had been less than a day since he promised Kurt otherwise, and the promise you make in a song is the same as a prayer.

-#-

 **Finn:** Coach Beiste is trying to keep him talking, but he doesn't look good. His lips are blue, and he's not really making much sense anymore.

 **Finn:** This is bullshit! (Sorry, but it is.)

Finn fired off another text to his mom, since it seemed the only other thing he was good for at the moment was using his frame to block the rest of the group from getting too much of an eyeful of what was going on with Blaine. He'd considered sending a text to Kurt or Rachel but knew once he did his phone would be blowing up. There was no point in setting off that particular fire storm until he had something useful to relay beyond, 'Hey, no one's dead, yet.'

He hated scaring his own mom, too, but as it was, Blaine's phone was busy running the interrogation app and fielding messages from whoever it was that information was being sent to. No one else had Pam Anderson's contact info, and Finn was pretty sure she was on the 'need to know' list. His mom and Burt both had her number, and from what he understood, she was being filled in at that exact moment.

 **Mom:** We're getting the first flight back and booking a ticket for Kurt from New York. Will send arrival information when we have it. Stay safe, honey. Love you. Mom.

Finn usually grinned when his mom ended all her text conversations with her name like they were letters, but today he couldn't find the humor in it. Instead, he slouched there staring at his phone, simultaneously comforted by the familiarity of the gesture and untethered by the finality of it. After only thirty seconds or so of no new messages to field, the helplessness closed in on him as though he'd fallen into a sand trap and knew it would collapse around him if he didn't keep scrambling up the side. One look at Sam and Artie who were both deathly silent and boring holes through him to where Schue and Coach Beiste tended to Blaine, and he was ready to put his fist through something.

"He's not talking anymore," Sam quavered. "Just keeps making that humming noise."

"Has anyone texted Kurt?" Artie asked, scrolling through his contacts.

"No, don't." Finn shook his head. "My mom and Burt are going to call. I think he should hear it from them. We don't really know anything, anyway."

"God, where is that 'all clear?'" This from Coach Beiste. She'd turned away from Blaine, ducking her head into Mr. Schuester, which just happened to put Finn directly in earshot.

"How's he doing? Any change?" Mr. Schuester sounded understandably flustered, having spent the last several minutes whisper-shouting into the phone with the 9-1-1 dispatcher in hopes of lighting a fire under the rescue effort.

"He's barely conscious but not coherent, and judging by his color, not moving a lot of blood. Will, whatever that thing in his chest is doing, it's not enough. It's been over an hour. If he doesn't get help soon, there's not going to be anything left to save. What does dispatch say? Any ETA on that rescue?"

Schue exhaled with a slight growl. "They won't let the EMTs past the barricades."

Finn's stomach flipped and not just from the cloying stench of sweat and vomit that strangled him despite the effort to breathe through his mouth. "Mr. Schue, we have to do _something_. I haven't heard a single shot since we went on lockdown. The shooter's already gone to ground."

When Mr. Schue gawped at him in confusion, he clarified, "Uh, sorry, I guess some of that sixteen days of basic training stuck with me, after all. I just think the shooter's either left the building or is in hiding. He did what he came to do, and now he's just waiting for the 'all clear,' so he can get out of here, same as us. Blaine's a little guy. I can carry him out of here. Right down the hall and out the front door."

"Absolutely not," Mr. Schuester objected.

"No," Beiste argued. "Not, you, Finn. Let me do it. I'm the adult here, and I know I'm strong enough."

"Exactly. You're the adult. You need to stay here with the rest of these students and keep them safe. I'll be fine. The gunman's not going to blow his cover coming after me. Not after all this time."

"We can't let you do that, kid."

"I'm not a kid!"

As if responding to the heat of their discussion, Blaine gasped behind them, the gut-punch strangled hiss of water on hot coals, then arched up as though a hand reached through his rib cage and grasped his spinal cord before yanking. A second later, Beiste and Schue descended, their voices urgent but quiet, nearly drowned under the din of Marley sobbing into Jake's shoulder beside a sniffling Kitty, all the while ticktock-ticktock-ticktock.

"Blaine! Come on, kid."

"I hate to say this, Will, but we can't sit here and wait anymore. He is barely breathin', and his color's not getting' any better. We gotta _do_ somethin'."

After a few seconds where Blaine laid completely motionless, his body began a slow recoil, joints and limbs spasming in some undetermined sequence, wrist, knee, elbow, hip, then hip, shoulder, ankle, thigh, on shuffling repeat. In the small gap between Schue and Coach Beiste, Finn could just make out Blaine's face, cheeks slack and eyes only half closed but unblinking while Coach tried repeatedly to rouse him, fingers pressing in search of a pulse.

Beside him, Finn could feel Sam coiling.

"Sam, hey, Sam whatever you're thinking…" Artie's voice quavered even as Sam heaved himself up.

"I gotta… " Sam oomphed a second later as Finn caught him by the back of his shirt and hauled him back down. "We can't just let him die!" His face was a solid sheet of tears, eyes red and gleaming with determination.

He was right. Of course he was right. But Finn was the one who drove down to Kentucky and brought Sam back. His parents trusted Finn to send him home again. And he would.

And if anyone was calling Finn's brother, his _brother,_ to tell him that Blaine laid here and died while they all waited for help to come to them, they'd do it over Finn's dead body. He joined the Army to fight and make a difference. He didn't come home to wait.

"This is bullshit!" Finn spat, leaping to his feet. The word sounded twice as foul on the air as it had in his head, yet not strong enough. He wished he knew something harsher. Instead, he let his eyes spit fire as Mr. Schue and Beiste both spun toward him, his teeth grinding in his jaw. Shrugging his shoulders square, chin up and chest out so that he took up every bit of space his frame allowed, he dared them to get in his way.

Beiste might've been able to stop him, if she didn't have that bum knee, and Mr. Schuester was in no position to try. Finn didn't give either of them the opportunity. Instead, he pushed between them, stooping down and hoisting Blaine against his chest with just a groan at the twinge in the thigh that got him kicked out of the Army.

When Mr. Schuester grasped his arm, something conflicted in the way he didn't try to restrain him but didn't let go either, Finn paused long enough to look him in the eye. "If you've still got dispatch on the phone, and tell 'em I'm coming out." Mr. Schuester nodded and finally resolved to let him go, one pat on the shoulder as both blessing and warning to take care before he put the phone to his ear.

Sam was already ahead of him, running to get the door.

Finn let him unlock it and met him at the threshold before he said, "Sam, you're in charge of Artie, okay? You stay with him. I got this."

"But I…"

"Need to make sure Artie gets out of here. Two of us can't do this any faster than one. We just make a bigger target." He pulled Blaine in tighter, too aware of how his arms dangled, fingers cold and grey. "Now lock this door and go sit with Artie."

He didn't wait for an answer, shoving into the hallway. By the time he heard the lock click into place, he was nearly around the corner, hyper aware that it was all he heard other than his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"Hang in there, little dude. I'm getting you out of here."

-#-

"Don't look at me like that," Sue chastised. "I am speaking American English here. I'm sure at least one of you can use Google translator, so answer my question. What is going on here?" She repeated. "These students are stressed out enough without the authority figures staging a riot of their own in the parking lot."

The SWAT officer was more than happy to oblige, probably P.O.'d that he'd been left in the parking lot himself instead of storming the halls with the rest of his unit. "These guys want me to break lockdown to let them in before the 'all clear,' has been sounded."

One of the paramedics, lowering is voice, leaned in toward her and retorted, "There's a kid in there with a heart condition, and we have reason to believe he's going into cardiac arrest. We need to get in there. We're willing to take the risk." His partner nodded, arms folded across his chest.

"Gay Blaine?!" Becky exclaimed. "Coach, are they talking about Gay Blaine?"

Folding her own arms across her chest as much to camouflage the shaking of her hands as to mirror the man in front of her, Sue asked, "And just where are you getting this information?"

"Kid's got an implantable device that called 911," the EMT shrugged. "Technology these days..."

"And it says he's in trouble?" Sue squinted, not sure she watched enough SYFY to be able to discern fact from fiction.

"Evidence of sustained antitachycardia pacing and at least two shocks that have so far failed to complete cardioversion. It's been going on long enough that we have to be concerned about multiple organ involvement and potential heart failure."

The SWAT officer turned away momentarily, hand covering the microphone on his headset as he appeared to listen to the rest of his team.

Sue turned back to the officer. "Let them in. I'll be responsible for them."

"No can do, Ma'am," he argued. "We got movement down the main hallway, armed officers closing in behind him. Could be our shooter. I'm responsible for everyone out here staying out here, until the shooter is apprehended and not before. Now, I'm going to need you to step back so we can get a clear shot when this guy comes out."

Despite the feeling of crushing defeat at knowing the jig was up, Sue squared up her shoulders and pressed her chest out as she stepped into the officer's personal space, causing him to place his hand on his weapon in response. "Put your gun down, officer. I am not going to let you shoot anyone on my school grounds."

"And it is my job to make sure _you_ don't get shot, lady. Now, stand. Down."

She stepped into him again, looking down her nose as she said, "I will do no such thing. No one is dying on my watch, not you, me, or any of these kids," she asserted. "So, let me speed the process along." She reached into her pocket and produced the two spent shell casings which she held out to him in surrender. "You've caught your gunman. It was my gun. It discharged accidentally. These are the shell casings, and I can show you where the bullets are lodged in the walls of my office. Now, sound the 'all clear' or I'm taking these gentlemen in myself."

The officer held out his hand, studying the shell casings for entirely too long before he seemed to concede, his entire posture relaxing as he reached for his mic. "All units, be advised. Stand down. I repeat. Stand down. There is NO shooter."

He'd barely taken his hand off the button when the front doors flew open, and the unmistakable figure of Finn Hudson stumbled onto the pavement cradling a limp body against his chest. He took a second to catch his breath, nearly falling to his knees before he shouted. "Help us! Someone! We need an ambulance! Hurry!"

"All clear!" the officer shouted, arm circling above his head. His signal resounded as the rest of his team, several of them poised just inside the doors where they'd been tracking Finn, sent up the call."

"All clear!"

"All clear!"

Sue gesticulated to the EMTs. "You heard the man. Get down there," she ordered, at which point, the entire crowd started to surge forward, forcing the remaining officers to push them back as they opened the barricade to let the ambulance through. Several moments were lost to chaos as the remaining detainees began to trickle out the side entrances and mix with waiting friends and family, all of them herded away from the front entrance to allow the paramedics to do their work.

"Finn! Blaine! Oh my God, Blaine!" Tina Cohen-Chang pushed past Sue, nearly in hysterics only to be stopped by the police at the edge of the parking lot. "What's happening? What's happening?! Blaine!"

From the sidewalk, a shout as the paramedics worked, their motions frantic. "Come on, kid! Come on! Load him up! Now!" One of the EMTs slit the Cheerios uniform up the middle as the other placed an oxygen mask over the Anderson boy's face. The lights were already flashing when they lifted the gurney into the ambulance, but by the time the door slammed shut, Blaine hadn't moved a muscle.

By then, the rest of the Glee kids were filing out, pushing the wheelchair kid out in front and flanked by Will Schuester and Shannon Beiste. Will motioned one of the officers over and handed him what looked like a cell phone which he promptly jogged over to the ambulance. A second later Tina spotted them, her sobs drowned out by the bloop, bloop of sirens as the driver laid on the horn to scatter people out of its path.

Sue didn't move as a handcuff clicked around her wrist.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but we're going to have to detain you."

She nodded as the sirens blared to life and offered her other hand without resistance, noticing with a sinking sense of dread the way Finn Hudson sat on the curb, hunched across his knees with his arms over his head. Will Schuester's entire posture was a slump of defeat when he sat down as well. The arm he put around Finn's shoulder pulled them closer as Finn collapsed and shook against him.

And God help them, it wasn't over yet.

The world might not have ended, but theirs was definitely breaking, broken, still breaking.

A fine pickle, indeed.

God help them all.

-TBC

 **AN:** This is the part where I apologize for another evilish cliffhanger and reveal that I specifically uploaded four chapters in the last five days in order to give you all plenty to read on the Holiday because I will most likely not be posting again until after the New Year. I hope you all have a wonderful holiday, if you celebrate. I try to never ask for feedback, even though, if I'm honest, I need it to keep the self-doubt and anxiety down to a dull roar. But it's Christmas, so just this once, if it's something you're able to give and can spare the time to do so, it would really make my whole year to hear from you. Have a Happy New Year!


	24. Aftershocks

**Warnings:** Emotional instability, hospital/medical situations and implied knowledge of such which is mostly inferred and possibly fictional for the purpose of dramatic effect.

"Are you guys watching this?" Rachel stormed into the apartment, not stopping to remove her shoes or slide the door shut, her eyes fixed on the phone in her hand as she grabbed the television remote. "I get Google alerts for anything to do with McKinley, have been ever since that thing with Blaine and the school board, which was simultaneously one of the darkest and most potentially paradigm shifting moments in the history of Lima, Ohio. The far-reaching implications for people all over the..."

She must've felt the way Kurt and Santana both levelled impatient glares at her, as she cut herself off without having to have pillows or purses tossed at her head. "Anyway, I got this an hour ago, and it's already on all the major networks, CNN, Fox News..." She barely let the television power on before she was changing the channel to whatever news station she'd been streaming on her way in. "McKinley went into lockdown after reports of shots fired in the building. And you'll never guess who they're naming as the shooter?"

Kurt slammed his textbook shut atop the piles of notes he had scattered across the dining table. Santana spun around from the mirror where she'd been putting on her face before heading out for her late-lunch/early-dinner shift at the diner. They both hopped over the back of the sofa, landing between the cushions as Sue Sylvester's picture flashed on the screen.

"Wait, this is another one of Sue's political statements gone wrong, right?" Kurt asked in bewilderment, grabbing the remote from Rachel to crank up the volume.

"For those of you just joining us, we're on location here at William McKinley High School in Lima," which the blonde reporter mispronounced with a long 'e' instead of an 'i' sound. "Ohi- I apologize, it's Lima (like the bean), Ohio, where a member of the faculty, multi-national championship winning cheerleading coach, Sue Sylvester, has just confessed to accidentally firing a gun in her office at the school. As a direct consequence of her actions, the school was under lockdown for upwards of an hour and a half this afternoon, leaving the remaining students and faculty, mostly members of extracurricular clubs and their advisors, huddled in terror while SWAT members scoured the building for a shooter which we now know, never really existed."

"Holy crap!" Kurt exclaimed. "That had to be terrifying. I bet the Glee Club was practicing." He reached into his pocket for his own phone, wondering why he hadn't heard anything before now and groaned internally as he realized he'd shut it off before his Baroque Stylings for Modern Performance exam that afternoon and never switched it back on. That professor had been known to drop students a whole letter grade if they so much as vibrated in class. He pushed the button to power it on and turned back to the television as he waited for it to boot up.

"Shhh!" Rachel reprimanded. "Is that someone on a stretcher?" They all leaned in, squinting at the grainy footage where the only thing they could really make out on the screen was the added text that revealed the footage was 'Previously Recorded.' "I thought they said it was an accident? Did somebody get shot when the gun went off?"

As if to answer Rachel's question, the reporter continued. "While it is reported that both bullets became embedded in the cinder block walls of Sylvester's office and did not directly result in any known injuries, we're getting word that a student with an undisclosed medical condition may have suffered complications and been subsequently denied immediate medical intervention due to having been detained by the lockdown. No word, yet, on whether that delay resulted in any serious injury or why Sylvester took over an hour to confess to the mishap."

"Who is it? Can you see?" It didn't matter who said it, since they were all thinking it.

They groaned simultaneously as the video feed cut to a head shot of the reporter again. "It's just half an hour since the 'All Clear' sounded, and we're already getting word of a harrowing tale from inside that prompted one heroic young man to break lockdown in order to carry his ailing friend to safety after Emergency Responders were forbidden from going inside."

The visual switched to another previously recorded video of armed officers taking aim at the front entrance of the building as someone burst through the door.

"Finn! My God, that's Finn!" Rachel exclaimed. Even hunched under the weight of the body he had clenched against his chest, there was no mistaking the broad shoulders and the fact that the nearest police officer looked nearly a head shorter, even in riot gear. They could barely make out dark hair and the red of a Cheerios uniform before the would-be hero was swarmed by police and EMTs.

"While the names of these two, who exited the building just seconds before the 'All Clear' was sounded, have not been released, we're told they were holed up in the Choir Room for over an hour before making this desperate escape. Still no word on the condition of the incapacitated youth, who has since arrived at Saint Rita's Medical Center here in Lima. We have not been able to confirm several corroborating witness statements that claim EMTs were being advised by a team of specialists from Wexner Medical Center and were at the ready as soon they were allowed to treat what we believe to have been the sole victim of this potentially tragic accident."

"Blaine. It's Blaine. It's Blaine, oh my God." Kurt's heart hammered in his chest. He was no sooner struck with the certainty than his phone, having finally booted up, began to chime nonstop with missed messages and calls. It took him several seconds of staring at it through blurred vision to realize it was actually ringing and answer the call. "H-hello, hello?" he sniffled.

"Kurt, honey. It's Carole. Your dad's just getting out of Committee where he's trying to get himself excused for the next couple of days, but I've been calling you for over an hour. Have you heard about what's happened at McKinley?"

"It's Blaine, isn't it?" While theoretically anyone could've taken refuge in the Choir Room, there weren't a lot of male Cheerios. The odds were in favor of it being Blaine, even if Kurt hadn't been able to recognize the hair. Or were they against? He didn't have it in him to consider which was most correct.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. It is. I wanted to be the one to tell you, since the media does tend to dramatize, but... yes, Blaine is the one who was hurt, and we don't know much more than that. We're heading home just as soon as your dad gets out of his meeting. Our flight leaves in two hours. We booked one for you. The confirmation should be in your inbox. You still have time to make it if you leave within the hour."

Kurt nodded slowly, confused at the way his chin trembled beneath the hand he had cupped over his mouth as he blinked his eyes against what felt like the first leaks in a crumbling dam. Arrangements. Of course. There were arrangements to be made, classes to cancel, clothes to pack, planes to catch. Arrangements he could do. He could. "H-have you talked to Finn? D-did he say...?"

"Kurt, Blaine had an episode while they were in lockdown. Apparently, his defibrillator went off more than once, and he lost consciousness before they could get him out."

"W-wait, m-more, more than once? That's not supposed to happen, is it?"

"Honey, I wasn't there. I don't want to guess what happened, or why. I called Blaine's mom, and she's at the hospital now. I'm sure we'll all know more as soon as she does. We're just trying to get home so we can be there for each other. Can you do that?"

He nodded, blinking slowly.

"Honey?"

He cleared his throat, choking back the steady trickle of swallowed emotion. "Sorry. Yes. Yes, of course, I'm on my way. I-I just need to... I'm coming. Love you. Tell Dad."

"I will, sweetheart. You just get home. Take care, dear. Your dad and I love you."

He disconnected the call, pulling up his email in a daze to find the flight confirmation.

"I'm calling Britts." Santana scrambled over the arm of the couch in search of her phone. She was already nearly sobbing with relief and repeating harsh whispers of endearment into the handset when Kurt dropped his phone. She disappeared behind the nearest curtain as he watched it slide down between the sagging cushions, eyes widening. Heart hammering all the way down to his fingertips, he saw it disappear, swallowed into the dark crush of fabric and misshapen foam. It wasn't the first time. He'd fished that same phone out of that same crack so many times he'd contemplated a slip cover just to keep that from happening. It wasn't new. It wasn't different.

Except it was, because until he was home and Blaine was right there with him, that phone was all he had, his lifeline, and it was... sinking.

He couldn't let it touch the bottom. If it touched the bottom... what did that mean?

He couldn't think about that. He lunged for it, fingers splayed as if to cast a net over it before it could slip further down, but just as he brushed the hard plastic case, the tremor in his hand shook it from its precarious perch, and it disappeared.

"Nononononononono." Clawing at the cushion, he flipped it over, found the phone nested against an exposed frame board, the screen still lit with his flight confirmation. He snatched it up, and, as though it was the most logical thought process in the world, methodically flipped all the cushions so the bottoms were on the top, tops against the frame. That made sense, didn't it?

He'd forgotten Rachel was still there until she grasped his elbow, her voice slowly filtering in between his own hammering heartbeats. "Kurt? Kurt, what are you doing?"

"B-blaine, Blaine fell down, and I couldn't catch him, but it's okay, because I just flipped everything around, and now down is up. It'll be fine, now." His breath expanded his whole chest as the room righted itself around him. Crisis averted.

"Honey, that's... your phone. It's not Blaine."

A whoosh of clarity like a bullet down the barrel of a laser-sighted sniper rifle, reality distant but in the crosshairs and breaking the sound barrier.

"Thank you very much, Rachel." Bullseye. "I do know that." And just like that, the bitch was back, and the bitch did know that his phone was not Blaine, and the bitch was pissed that Rachel Berry, of all people, could not appreciate the metaphor. Because that's what it was. Metaphor. A creative device. Twisting words to embellish reality. Or was it twisting reality? Either way, it was art. He was an artist. So was Rachel. She shouldn't need it spelled out for her.

Her voice cracked when she released her grip. "Do you?"

He met her gaze, held it through the span of two breaths, surprised by the complete void inside his head where he usually found an endless stream of pithy comebacks stockpiled and waiting to be unleashed. It wasn't unlike the hollow space inside his gut where his chest had collapsed and taken the rest of him with it.

"Of course." His voice had never felt so small.

Her expression slipped into something between worry and disbelief, but she didn't press. "Was that a call from home? Was it news?"

"Carole," he stated. "It was Blaine. The one they were talking about on the news. His defibrillator was going off, and they couldn't get him out. No one knows why it happened or how he is. We're just... trying to get home. They booked a flight." The words felt bland and stale in his mouth as he held up the phone.

She pressed a hand to her chest, face shadowed with warring emotion. "Well, then... I'm going, too. If I can't get the same flight, I'll book the next one. C'mon. Let's get you packed. I'll have a cab downstairs in ten minutes."

His chin was back to trembling, then, his whole face pulling down despite his determination to brace it up, and his voice was wet and thick when he said the only thing that came to mind. "Thank you."

She dismissed the sentiment by turning him toward his bed space, already reaching for her phone to call the cab, and he moved in a trance, trying and failing to pull up a mental list of everything he needed to pack and where to find it. Before he could even pull back the curtain, Santana emerged with his carry on in tow, and parked it in front of him as she swept past, only half dressed herself as she appeared midway between swapping out her work uniform for street clothes, the phone still pressed to her ear.

"That's right, Gunther, family emergency." She scowled at the handset in disbelief. "Yes, I have family. The whole spawn of Satan thing is just a ruse to keep skeezy stalkers like you outta my business. And no, I will not produce a signed affidavit to that effect." She huffed and rolled her eyes as he likely tried to deny her leave. "Look, I'm doing you a favor by calling and letting you know I'm not going to be there. You can either accept that and use the next hour to find a replacement or you can choose to live in denial. Either way, as of right now, you're short-handed, 'cuz I ain't gonna be there. If you want to fire me, then go right ahead. I was looking for a job when I found this one."

She disconnected the call and finished doing up her top, meeting Kurt's gaze from between the fronds of her hair that fell across her face as she looked down to find the final buttons. "Don't look at me like that. He'll be emailing me the work schedule on Sunday night, just like always. If I went into work, he'd have to fire me for being on my phone all night, anyway. No way I'm going to be able to concentrate on anything else until I go home and see for myself that... everyone's okay. At least this way I have a leg to stand on." She shrugged. "Family's a relative term anyway."

Kurt nodded and turned away to find his jacket as the other two scrambled to throw some items into the Coach bags Santana had scored at a bus stop in Brooklyn. Everyone knew they were knock-offs, but they were just as functional, room for a couple slip dresses, underwear and toiletries. At least the guy hadn't charged her by swiping his credit card through his butt crack.

-#-

Seven minutes later they were all sandwiched into the back seat of the cab, Rachel and Santana trying frantically to book flights to Columbus and being confounded in their efforts by the constant text messages pinging in from every direction. Somehow they'd all been added to nearly identical groups, and whoever was sending the texts was so focused on spreading the word that they weren't reading anything coming back, so they were all texting over themselves.

Kurt was ready to fling his phone through the windshield. "I can't make heads nor tails of this mess," he growled. "From what I gather, everyone's at Saint Rita's, the chairs are hard, the coffee's bad, and no one knows anything. Oh, and according to Kitty, one of the doctors looks like a cross between young, hot David Hasselhoff and a gracefully aged McSteamy version of Dr. Ross from ER."

"Same," Rachel sighed.

"El mismo." Santana dropped her phone in her lap and leaned her head back against the window. "At least I got on the next flight."

"Me, too. Maybe we can rent a car together once we get to Columbus. I don't know if anyone's going to be available to pick us up."

"Dad and Carole are getting in about the same time..." Kurt broke off to answer an incoming call.

"Pam? Pam? Have you seen him, yet? How is he?" He covered his opposite ear with his hand as the traffic noises seemed to double.

"Kurt? Sweetheart, you sound like you're in a war zone. I don't know if you can hear me, but they've got Blaine stable enough to transport, and they're flying him to Wexner."

"Transport? But why? Can't they treat him there? What's going on?"

"They're not entirely sure, yet," she answered. "They were having trouble getting his heart back to a normal rhythm, and once they did, they didn't waste any time getting him on the helicopter, because they were afraid it wouldn't stay stabilized. I only got to see him for a few seconds, and he wasn't awake. I'm just swinging by the Waiting Room to tell everyone where he's going, and then I'm heading for Columbus myself. Call me when you land, I'll either come get you or send someone."

"Thank you. Thank you for the update, and please, let me know as soon as you find out more. Anything. If I'm in the air, I'll get it as soon as I land."

Upon hanging up, he noticed Rachel and Santana's matching looks that begged for explanation. "They're Med Flighting Blaine to Wexner."

"Kurt, that really doesn't sound good."

"Thank you very much, for that bit of wisdom. I had been feeling strangely deprived of commentary from the perspective of the tiny person around which the entire world revolves. I don't know how I made it through one single day without you to explain the inner workings of the blatantly obvious, Rachel." Santana immediately picked her phone out of her lap as apparently the entirety of their contact lists got the same news and staged a mass attack on their phones to share it first. "Britt and Sam are making the drive. Finn's going to pick up his parents and drive them to the hospital."

"Tina's going with Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury," Rachel added scrolling through her own mass influx of new messages as she appended, "Does anybody else think it's strange that she still goes by Pillsbury?"

"No." Kurt and Santana mumbled in unison.

"I hope they all know it's probably going to be family only visiting." Kurt sighed, wishing they'd ever gotten around to getting himself added as one of Blaine's emergency contacts like they'd discussed. "God, it's stuffy in here. Are we almost there?"

-#-

 **Pam:** He made it to Wexner OK. Dr. wants to try surgery. They're prepping him now. Still hasn't regained consciousness.

 **Carole:** We're just about to board in Washington. Should be in Columbus an hour after you. Booked a couple of rooms for the night at the Hyatt.

 **Rachel:** Just boarded our flight. Santana and I have adjoining seats. Are you getting a room in town or going back to Lima?

 **Mercedes:** Oh my God, Kurt! I just got out of the studio and got the D.L. on everything that's going down there. Please let me know when you find anything out. And I know you don't believe, but I'm praying for Blaine enough for both of us. (((hugs)))

 **Finn:** Dude, look up.

Kurt's carry on banged into his shoe as he stopped abruptly and straightened to see over the throng of people. He needn't have bothered. Finn was unmistakable where he towered above the crowd exiting the jet bridge into the terminal.

Somehow, Kurt managed to maintain that posture, defiantly straight even as his feet sped up, belying the panic and urgency boiling beneath his bones. It wasn't until Finn held out his arms, his own face crumpling as he mumbled, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," that Kurt let himself collapse.

Finn caught him, pulling him into his chest as he continued his stream of apologies into his shoulder, the both of them shaking like they'd just finished a marathon, jagged around the edges and spent down to the last ounce of strength. "We just sat there, waiting. All that time, he was getting sicker and sicker, and we just sat there. H-he was so scared. We all were." Finn sniffled, putting Kurt at arm's length long enough to look him in the eyes, his face reddening with anger beneath the pallor of fear. "All that time we sat there, and there never was a shooter!"

Kurt blinked back, sucking in a breath to offer some placitude, a pardon for whatever crime Finn felt he committed, when it was obvious to Kurt that Finn was the only one who'd found a way to be right in a day where everything had gone so, so wrong. The slump in his shoulders and the skin stretched too tightly over his cheekbones bore testament to everything Finn warred with, and Kurt knew there was nothing he could say to turn the tide. Only Blaine could do that.

"Take me to him?" Kurt begged.

Finn nodded brusquely, wiping his eyes with the sleeves of the denim jacket he always had behind the seat of his truck. He bent just enough to take the handle of Kurt's carry-on. "Yeah. Yeah, c'mon. Maybe they'll tell you something." He started toward the exit, paused abruptly and turned back. "But Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't know what you've heard or what you saw on TV or whatever, but... it's bad. It's... real bad," and he turned back around, a haunted expression on his face that Kurt had only ever seen twice before: when Kurt's dad had his heart attack, and when Finn had to tell everyone gathered for his and Rachel's wedding that Quinn was in an accident on her way there.

So Kurt knew for sure he was telling the truth.

It was real bad.

-#-

It took a cab, a skyway, a tram, an airplane, a jet bridge, and finally Finn's beat up pickup, so much energy and fossil fuel to get him there, but five hours after Rachel burst into their apartment and switched on the news, Kurt covered the last of the nearly six hundred miles between himself and Blaine.

Only to find himself standing still in the middle of an empty hallway, watching in earnest as Blaine's mother went into the CCU alone.

She'd promised to talk to someone and make sure Kurt was allowed in as well, but first she had to see him herself. He didn't know how long he stood there, the jacket he'd worn on the plane draped over his arm and clasped against his stomach, but eventually, the stillness got to be too much. Waiting didn't have to happen in a vacuum, even if places like this always seemed to exist in a negative pressure gradient. He needed to move.

Somehow, he found himself back in the waiting room, where Sam, Brittany, Tina, Mr. Schue, Ms. Pillsbury, and Finn were still waiting for word. The news crew from earlier had been banned to the parking lot, and most of the stations were using the same recorded footage of everyone exiting the high school after the 'All Clear' was given. No one was watching it anymore, despite the television on the wall still playing the story on constant loop. For as many people as were crammed into the room proper, there really should have been more noise. Instead, all Kurt heard was the door closer folding in on itself followed by the shifting of dozens of feet as everyone turned in their seats or uncrossed their legs and leaned forward to face him.

"What did the doctor say? Is Blaine okay?" Tina, of course. Though she'd been there longer than Kurt, arriving with everyone else from McKinley, she hadn't been in the Choir Room with them and hadn't fallen into quite the same adrenaline letdown stupor the rest had. She'd also been the only one to protest when Mrs. Anderson took Kurt along to speak with the doctor and left the rest of them to wait awhile longer.

"Um, most of you know he was unconscious when they brought him in. He has not regained consciousness," Kurt started, suddenly very aware that he only had a fleeting grasp on everything the doctor had told him, "so they've had to piece everything together based on statements from everyone that was there. Thank you, to everyone that was there, for helping with that."

He took a beat to study the grid lines of tile on the floor. Clean, straight lines. Clear. Predictable. Focused. Stable.

"Several of you were helpful enough to volunteer the information that Blaine got sick during first period, and his mom said he woke up late and had just taken his medication. There's a distinct possibility that he threw up his medication and didn't have enough in his system to keep his heart from going into overdrive when the gunshots went off. Mr. Schue said he was heading to the nurse's office when the whole thing started, so he was probably aware that something was going wrong even before the shots were fired. When that happened, the emotional trauma triggered the electrical impulses controlling Blaine's heartbeat to start firing out of control."

"And that's why his ICD went off," Finn concluded. "Makes sense."

"But why did it keep firing?" Mr. Schuester pressed. "I counted at least three times. Even Blaine said that wasn't supposed to happen."

He wished the floor was some color scheme other than black and white. He felt like the entire last year of his life had been varying shades of grey, and this was some cosmic sign that it was all over now. His _life_ , _their_ life as they knew it. Over. They'd reached a fork. No more grey- surviving, getting by, doing all right, enough. This was it. Black or white. Live or die. Together. Alone. He wasn't quite ready to approach that ledge, let alone jump off, but it was crumbling and retracting inch by inch so the precipice approached whether he moved or not.

All or nothing.

The silence got a little deafening before he went on. The facts. Just truth. No consequences. He could do that. Kurt took a breath. "Even though h-his defibrillator was functioning properly, it wasn't successful in converting him back to a normal rhythm. It did prevent him from going into full arrest, but it discharged three times before he got medical attention, and then twice more before they got his rhythm under control. It took longer than it should have, because the arrhythmia didn't respond to the medication, and they had to use external defibrillation as well. They performed a procedure called an ablation, which basically burned the area that was producing the erratic impulses. That worked, for the time being, but now they have to determine how much damage might have been done."

"Sooo, he's not okay, but he will be?" Finn ventured. His wasn't the only confused expression in the crowd.

"No, he isn't, and... maybe?" Where was a magic 8 ball when you needed one?

"Maybe?" Sam repeated. "As in, he's not out of the woods, yet? Or 'maybe' as in, there's permanent damage that they might not be able to fix?"

"Possibly both. Probably both." Grey, all grey, because Kurt didn't get to choose the outcome, had to wait like everyone else to find out. He closed his eyes, wondered if there was a way to walk on only the white tiles without drawing a ridiculous amount of attention to himself, and turned his gaze inward as he wrapped his arms higher up on his chest, the jacket probably hopelessly wrinkled between them.

"His heart was beating so fast and for so long that it wasn't able to fill properly and wasn't supplying blood to the rest of his body for an extended period of time. Organ failure is a possibility, not excluding brain damage. They're immediately concerned about his kidneys and his liver. Normally, they'd force fluids, but if his heart was damaged, that would only put more stress on it, so they're putting him on continuous dialysis and lowering his body temperature so that his brain doesn't require as much oxygen. In the meantime, they're keeping him in a drug-induced coma to let his whole system physically reset without inflicting any more emotional trauma on him."

"So, how long are we talking before he recovers?" Mr. Schuester asked.

"They'll leave him in the coma for at least a couple of days. Hopefully by then they'll know if his liver and kidneys are functioning properly, or whether there's been any brain damage. Beyond that, we just have to wait and see." Black or white. Days until they knew which. He shifted his right foot to the white side of a the line it was straddling beside a black tile.

"So, that's it?" Sam's face pinched in disbelief. "We drove all this way and waited around for hours, and we don't even get to see him? Blaine is my best friend! We were there in that choir room with him while he got sicker and sicker, and no one could do anything to help him. We had to watch... THAT... happen to him, and I'm not just going to walk out of here until I see him for myself."

"Sam," Kurt sighed, "I get it. I do. But while he's on the renal replacement therapy and has his body temperature is down, they're monitoring him in the Cardiac ICU. Only family is allowed in. Hospital policy. I haven't seen him myself, and it's killing me, but..."

"What?" They all turned as the doors hissed shut behind Cooper, who'd foregone the dramatic entrance along with, from the looks of it, a trip to hair and makeup to remove the last traces of the disaster movie character he'd been filming as when he got the call. "Kurt, we've both been clobbered by Blaine in our sleep. That makes you family. And, um, Sam, is it?" he asked, pointing his finger, as Sam nodded. "Sam here is my first cousin twice removed on my mother's side. Or he will be once he loses the letter jacket." He draped an arm over each of them, pulling them in. "Now, where is..."

He choked, his big brother to the rescue persona vaporized in the face of the one true hero in the room. "Finn!"

Finn ducked his eyes, one hand on his elbow, the other loose and dangling in front of him, the picture of humility where he stood slumped against the wall. When Cooper covered the space between them in three strides, Finn cringed and drew back the fraction of an inch afforded him by the space between himself and the wall only to be pulled forward into a teary embrace.

"Thank you. Oh my God, I don't even know how to thank you enough for what you did. That's my baby brother you carried out of there. How can I ever...?"

"Hey, it's cool, dude, but you don't owe me anything. I mean, there wasn't even any real shooter," he dismissed. "If anything, I screwed up by not acting sooner. Maybe if I'd stepped up when this all started, Blaine would be at home Skyping Kurt right now instead of laying back there with machines doing the stuff his kidneys used to do while we all cross our fingers he doesn't have brain damage or something." He pulled away as Cooper seemed prepared to ramp up an argument to the contrary, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone which was lit with an incoming call. "It's my mom," he said by way of excusing himself and stepped outside.

"Cooper? Oh, thank God you made it." Pam came out of the closed ward, her mascara and eyeliner mostly smeared into the handkerchief in her hand, eyes red-rimmed and tired. "They're still trying to reach your father, but they're sending him home as soon as they can get to him." She held out her arms, and Cooper, for all his bluster, fell into them.

"Mama. How could this happen? He was doing so well."

Pam just shook her head and hugged him. "I don't know, baby. I don't think anyone knows." Sniffling, she caught Kurt's eye over Cooper's shoulder. "Kurt, I got you on the list. If you go through there, they'll take you back to see him." Heart stammering, Kurt felt his eyes widen, swallowing as he lifted his chin. Pam extricated herself from Cooper's embrace in time to take Kurt by the elbow before he disappeared behind the swinging doors. "Honey, it's... He looks..." she broke off.

"It's bad," he finished, offering a sad half-smile as he repeated Finn's earlier admonition. "I've been warned. But I need to see for myself."

She let him go with a sad nod. If he only stepped on white tiles until he made it through the doors, it was a lucky coincidence that was only partially due to the fact that his stride was perfectly matched to the perfectly metered distance between them. The tiles couldn't move, but he could.

He did.

-#-

"Don't let all of this intimidate you, too much. It's just helping him along so he can rest and not work so hard to get better. They're still getting everything set up, but you can hold his other hand." Nurse Patty guided him to the far side of the bed the same way she'd guided him into the room after meeting him at the CCU desk where he'd ended up after dead ending at a set of locked doors on the other end of the hall and retracing his footsteps, realizing he had no idea where he was going or how to get there.

She must've recognized the shocked expression on his face, because he didn't remember offering more than his name before she swooped him up and herded him down here like one of her baby chicks. She looked to be about Carole's age, and if she wasn't somebody's mother, then she'd just been working there long enough to know that bedside manner was as much about treating families as it was about the patients themselves. She was good at it, and obviously took care of herself, too. Her messy bun showed just a hint of youthfulness, even if Kurt could spot the slight greying of her nearly black hair at the temples, and the forearms peeking out beneath her short scrub sleeves were toned and muscular, like she practiced yoga or maybe Pilates.

He knew he shouldn't care, but at the moment, his senses were pinging, and he felt hyper aware of everything. This was a moment he would never forget even if he tried.

Kurt's ribs hitched under the pressure of her hand as she guided him around the foot of the bed. She helped him find Blaine's one untethered hand when his vision swam out of focus and placed it in his. It was cold.

Cold and grey.

"I know it doesn't look like it, but he's doing well. His color's already much better than it was when he came in. He's a little cold, but that's giving his body a chance to catch up with its oxygen deficit."

Covering his mouth with his free hand, he choked back his emotions the best he could before wiping at his cheeks with the cuff of his sleeve and let his eyes travel. Blaine was wearing a hospital gown, but the top third of it was pulled back exposing the dozen or so sticky patches for the EKG lines. The familiar lump of his ICD sat just below his collar bone, nearly hidden by the tubing criss-crossing his shoulder on its way to and from some insertion point in his neck and a machine the size of a small refrigerator that another nurse was monitoring closely, hanging various bags of fluids and adjusting clamps while clicking the touchscreen. The dialysis machine, he assumed.

None of that mattered half as much as Blaine's eyes, the lids dark and bruised, lashes fanned over his cheekbones, no flutter of movement or life, and below that, the ventilator hose hooked in the corner of his mouth. "A ventilator?" he asked.

"Don't worry about that. It's only assisting him. He's breathing just fine. This way he doesn't waste any more energy than he needs to get better, and if his breathing slows down because of the hypothermia, he will still get all the oxygen he needs." She patted his hand where it was clasped in Blaine's. "Take your time, but we can only allow two visitors at a time, so you'll have to work that out if anyone else shows up."

He sat himself down beside the bed, staking his claim. They'd have to tear him away. For now, he was right where he belonged. She excused herself without offering anything further, and Kurt noted the time on one of the many monitors beeping around them.

Just over twenty-four hours ago, he was being serenaded to sleep, Blaine's voice chasing away the nightmare so Kurt could close his eyes.

Now, Blaine's voice was stolen, and Kurt couldn't wake up.

Leaning forward, he rested his head beside Blaine's shoulder on the bed and closed his eyes as he began to sing.

"Just close your eyes, the sun is going down. You'll be alright; no one can hurt you now." He didn't know if Blaine could hear, but just in case, one of them deserved to rest well after the day they'd both had. Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound."

With any luck, it wouldn't be a lie this time.

-#-

Dark.

And cold.

And quiet.

So, not all bad. Quiet was good. Blaine liked quiet. Quiet was safe. Quiet was its own kind of warmth that didn't care about ambient temperature. Quiet was heavy and strong. He could lean into it and away from everything else, get swallowed up in soft and smooth and empty.

Light.

Light was a spear, pointed and sharp, lanced him open with laser heat and cauterized the wound with liquid nitrogen, the horizon a jagged landscape of hardened frost. The light poked and prodded and pulled him in when everything inside him shrank away. It was loud and shrieked through his skull no matter how tightly he clamped his eyes shut against it. Maybe because he was too tired and heavy to actually do more than think about clamping anything shut, the heavy of the quiet sitting over him so densely that even his thoughts barely percolated beneath the tar and the dark.

At the moment, prehistoric didn't seem such a bad thing to be.

But the ice man didn't stay buried, and La Brea coughed up history on a regular basis.

Time and again, he bubbled to the surface and fought his way back to the depths. Maybe it was hours, maybe days. Time didn't exist in the quiet and the dark.

Finally the bubble burst.

"There you are." A flash of light and a buzz saw cut through the barrier between the quiet and the screaming agony of wide awake. He made a mental note to never support cryogenic research. Waking up was cruel and unusual punishment. It went against everything Blaine believed in.

The light flicked off, in its place a storyboard world with shadow puppets ghosting across it.

"Blaine. It's time to wake up, son."

No, it wasn't. His alarm wasn't even going off, yet. Was it even a school day?

Something didn't sit right. He was used to waking up with a list of everything he needed to do that day tattooed onto the insides of his eyelids and PowerPoint already open and running on his personal neural net. Now, he couldn't pin down the day of the week, or even make an educated guess about the last one he remembered.

"Blainey?"

He was pretty sure that was his name, though.

"Dad?" In his mind, he asked the question, recognized right away that his dad shouldn't be there, hadn't been since he got back on that plane in... January, was it?... In reality, his voice failed him, throat scratchy and spasming shut when he tried to force out the words.

"Take it easy. Your throat's going to be sore. If you can open your mouth a little, we have some ice chips here that should help with that."

Blaine did as he was told. Even half unconscious there was that same ingrained need to comply tugging at him in that way he never had been able to ignore. A few blinks later, ice melting on his tongue and down his throat, things slid into focus.

"It's Sunday afternoon, Blaine. You've been… asleep since Thursday."

He was still too tired to panic at finding himself in the hospital... again, covered in stickums and pocked with needles taped down to keep the dangling tubing from ripping them out... again. The weight of however long he'd been under still pressed him down as though the mattress had been cut out around him. Panic would have required energy he just didn't have yet.

What he was, was disappointed. He didn't quite know why, but he couldn't shake the distinct feeling of having some unidentified dangling carrot ripped out of his grasp. Something had been taken away from him, and he couldn't even remember what it was or where to go looking for it.

A face loomed into focus above him, and something sloshed in his chest as though all of his organs had simultaneously gelatinized. He closed his eyes and opened them again, a blatant attempt to confirm he wasn't still asleep and wasn't dreaming.

"Dad?"

His voice worked that time, still scratchy but at least audible. His lips felt dry and cracked, his tongue laced in a leather corset.

A relieved chuckle. "Yup, it's me. I'm here. That's real good, kiddo. Really good. Don't wear yourself out, though. There's no hurry. You come back on your own time."

Blaine let his eyes wander, getting the lay of the land. He didn't have far to look, the walls close and thin, the floor cluttered with machines and monitors, some he recognized from previous visits to the cardiology unit, others more intimidating in their unfamiliarity. Twisting slightly to follow some of the leads and tubes over his shoulder proved to be a mistake as something in his chest scraped like salt-crusted sandpaper over a fresh paper cut, leaving him panting and breathless, fisting into the bedsheets as his vision tried to grey out.

"Woah, woah, woah." His father pressed a hand to his chest and held him flat. "You're going to want to avoid bigger movements for a while. You've had some surgery, and unfortunately ablation pain doesn't always respond well to conventional analgesics. Plus, you haven't had the chance to move around and keep from stiffening up. It should feel better in a day or so."

"'m sick?" He really hated the way his tongue stuck to the top of his mouth like it was trying to keep from falling down his throat and darted his eyes toward the cup of ice chips on the stand beside his father.

His dad took the hint and tilted Blaine's chin toward himself before tipping some of the frozen slivers into his mouth, a slight downturn in his expression as he apparently contemplated the answer to Blaine's question. "What's the last thing you remember, Blaine?"

That had to be a trick question, because if he was honest, Blaine didn't really remember much before waking up a few minutes ago, but he did remember his dad getting on that plane in January. After Christmas. With Kurt. So, maybe it was just his short term memory that was missing, wiped clean like it hadn't been used in a while.

He closed his eyes and waited for something to swim to the surface, wasn't surprised that it was a song. "Don't you dare look out your window, darling everything's on fire."

"Hmm?"

"Kurt couldn't sleep. Nightmares. Sang him a song." The rest of the words swirled around him, and he chased them until he was dizzy, his head pounding with the effort.

"Don't hurt yourself, Son. It's not important to remember everything right away."

But Blaine was on the cusp of... something, running after snow demons as they vaporized in the light of the sun. "The war outside our door keeps ragin' on." The war outside our door. Outside the Choir Room. A war.

Cold. Cold. Cold.

"Blaine?"

"Shots fired. We were in the Choir Room, and someone was shooting, and I..." His eyes flew open. "I got shocked. I got shocked, and then it, it just kept happening, and... Oh my God, is everyone okay?"

Thomas' eyes went wide even as tears pooled in the corners, a startled huff coughed into a closed fist. "Yeah, yeah, kiddo. Everyone's fine. No one else got hurt."

"No one else?"

His dad was never really one for touching, the occasional hug almost an act of defiance as though he had to physically work to make it happen, but Thomas reached for him then. One hand on Blaine's shoulder and the other taking his hand, his head dipped between his shoulder blades as he spoke. "Blaine, you had a very serious episode of tachycardia that day, and because of the lockdown you didn't receive any medical attention for more than an hour. By the time they got it stabilized, you kidneys were failing and your liver was functioning at less than half capacity. You were in pretty rough shape, but after a day of continuous renal replacement therapy, those functions have mostly recovered."

"Well, that's-that's good, right?" Something about the way his father's hand tightened around his made his chest contract in sympathy, and he nearly forgot to breathe.

When his dad looked up from the spot on the mattress he'd been focused on, his eyes were already red. "Sure. Absolutely, that's a good thing."

"But..." He knew there was a but, knew it would completely negate any victory in the previous statement.

"But, there are still some test results to confirm, and some unanswered questions." His thumb stroked over the back of Blaine's hand, more calloused than Blaine remembered. "What we do know is that there is damage to your heart, probably from a number of factors. We suspect there was something going on before the shooting, possibly complications from the infection you were being treated for, but whatever was going on was most likely exacerbated by the persistent tachycardia and the repeated defibrillator shocks. At the time of your ablation, your cardiac output was drastically reduced, and controlling the arrhythmia has not restored it to normal function."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means your heart is failing, Son. We're not looking at a decades long progression timeline for your condition anymore. We're nearing the end of that timeline now."

There was that greying out at the edges of his tunnel of vision again, the encroachment of the quiet and the dark. At that moment, only one concern caused him to push back against it. "Does Kurt know?"

"He does. He's waiting outside. Would you like to see him?"

Just then, there was nothing he wanted more, nothing he needed more desperately, but when he opened his mouth to say as much, it snapped shut again, his head shaking along with his shoulders and his chest, a whooping sob force-fed back into his throat and down his gullet where he clamped down around it and tried his best to smother it out.

His dad patted his hand, pushed back the hair on his forehead as Blaine fixed his gaze on the ceiling, suddenly drowning but too far from the surface to kick. "You just take a minute. We're all here when you're ready."

"No. Send Kurt. He shouldn't be alone."

What he meant was, he'd probably never be ready.

What he wanted was to go back to sleep and wake up again, maybe get a do-over or someone else's timeline.

What he hoped for was the chance to sleep beside and wake up next to Kurt.

But there was no guarantee he'd wake up at all. Not anymore.

-TBC

AN: Thanks everyone for your comments and kudos over the Christmas holiday. I go back to work tonight, so it's officially after New Year's. Chapter 23 was also officially the last chapter I had written ahead. From now on out, two, possibly three more chapters, you'll have to accept my meager progress of approximately 1000 words a day and no set posting dates. I'm going to attempt to post at least once a week, but I won't post anything I'm not happy with. The ending has to be perfect. Thanks for understanding.


	25. Bed of Nails

**AN:** Well, I warned that my process is slow. After writing and re-writing the same two or three scenes several times, I'm not entirely satisfied with this update, but I've come to accept it's going to be hard to follow the last two chapters no matter how I write it. It didn't help that I finally caved and watched "The Assasination of Gianni Versace," which I'd been avoiding because I didn't want to see Darren in something that dark until after I finished writing this. I'm so glad I watched it, though, because he was amazing in it and totally deserving of the Emmy and the Golden Globe. And let's face it (slight spoilery) Darren dancing around in his underwear was well worth the anticipation.

 **Warnings** : This chapter is heavy. Depression, OCD, unreliable narration, and a panic attack. There might be a fart joke.

Blaine used to appreciate irony, even the Alanis version, which he really only remembered when he needed a soup spoon and all they had were teaspoons to twirl their pasta in while Cooper prattled on about eating his peas with honey.

 _"It tastes kind of funny, but it keeps 'em on the knife."_

Her definition and his might've been formed from differing perspectives, but they somehow both arrived at the same conclusion, and that was 'life had a funny way of sneaking up on you when you think everything's okay.'

 _"You should probably talk to Sam. He was in the Waiting Room blubbering about eating your breakfast on the day of the shooting. He should know none of this was his fault."_

At least he had gained something from this whole experience. He now knew that people in comas actually could hear the people around them, at least Blaine knew he could. He just hadn't known he'd heard them until now, a day after he waking up as random voices surfaced out of nowhere. They didn't make a whole lot of sense, individually, but collectively there was a story there Blaine wouldn't know otherwise. Whether the irony was that Cooper had recited the peas and honey ditty to his comatose brother or that Blaine seemed to remember that he did it, he wasn't quite sure.

 _"And the plot thickens... So, apparently the gun belonged to Becky Jackson's father, and when Sue tried to get her to hand it over, it accidentally went off. The school was in lockdown for almost two hours because Sue was trying to protect Becky. I guess that's supposed to make it okay. You know, half those kids are going to have some form of PTSD. There's still talk of charging her with Reckless Endangerment for what happened to you, but, according to her lawyer, Finn technically did the same thing when he broke lockdown and almost got you both shot."_

 _"That friend of yours-Finn is it? I-I think it is. He's telling everyone to make sure they sign their donor cards and put your name on it so everyone knows you get first dibs. I wonder if he knows it doesn't work that way?"_

Or maybe the irony was that, even though they told people to talk to you while you're unconscious, and tell them that there's a good chance that you'll hear, they still said things they never would if they knew you could.

 _"I am so proud of you."_

 _"You were always better than me."_

 _"This kind of thing runs on my side of the family. I should've watched you closer."_

Or that the one voice he needed to keep him away from the ledge would be the one he ended up taking over with him.

 _"I'll never say goodbye to you."_

And now, the guy whose heart was failing, who wasn't supposed to move or stand or lift without assistance was expected to carry all of the extra weight of knowing. Because he knew, as sure as the heart was only fluttering in his chest but pounding in his ears, and every breath seemed more likely to collapse than to lift the cold and the dark that had settled over him. He knew.

He knew sometimes goodbye came whether you said it or not, and it was an awfully short word for everything it meant, and a longish one for the amount of time he had to say it.

-#-

Kurt reached for the controls and adjusted Blaine's bed a little more upright. "You're bulging again," he explained even though Blaine never so much as batted an eye, withdrawn to the point that Kurt wondered if he ever really woke up from the coma at all.

Blaine's heart was failing, more accurately, the right side was failing. Damaged first by the ARVC, the arrhythmias caused by the ARVC, then the infection, electrical storm, and finally, multiple defibrillator shocks, he had the heart muscle of someone who'd suffered a major infarction, only there was no diet and exercise regime that was going to fix it. And since all the blood from his body returned to the right side and only a fraction of it went back out to his lungs the way it was supposed to, the rest backed up, mostly around his liver and stomach, but if he laid back too long or tried to lean forward, you could actually see it bulging up into the veins of his neck. Diuretics helped. Anticoagulants worked to prevent the sluggish blood from clotting, and vasodilators opened up his vessels so he could move more oxygen even though his heart pumped less, but since his blood pressure wasn't high to begin with, it was almost too low now, and he got dizzy if he moved too fast. Supplemental oxygen helped the decreased fraction that made it into the lungs do a little bit more work, but the carbon dioxide built up in the fraction that backed up made his pH drop, so he had to have bicarb in his i.v.

Thomas had explained it all to Kurt, everything a delicate balance of a little too much this to make up for a little too little of that, and one wrench in the works could throw the whole thing off. But not if Kurt could help it. His eyes stayed busy every second, tracking what he called his 'circuit of vigilance.' He checked every monitor, every number, every blip, then tracked them all again on constant loop during the hours he sat holding Blaine's hand, while Blaine...

Well, that was it, wasn't it? Kurt watched monitors, pressed the call button if say, Blaine's pulse ox dropped a percentage point or his temperature rose a half degree (which was often, since it hadn't quite stabilized after the forced hypothermia), if his Foley was full or not filling fast enough, or that blip might have been a pre ventricular contraction. He took all his cues from machines and monitors and bags because he couldn't take them from Blaine.

After watching carefully to make sure he'd raised the bed enough for Blaine's veins to stop bulging, he started his circuit again. EKG, pH, heart rate, temperature, pulse oximeter, Foley (Almost full again. The diuretics they had Blaine on were still working overtime to overcome the edema he'd developed.) color. He was still a little too grey and ashen for Kurt's liking but not blue enough to warrant increasing the oxygen output through his cannula. His eyes...

Kurt couldn't spend much time there. If he did, he'd end up leaving in tears like Pam had already done twice that day. If he spent too much time looking into Blaine's eyes it got hard to pretend the lack of... well, anything really, from Blaine was due to exhaustion or brain fog from his time in a coma. Because Blaine was awake. His eyes were clear and bright, if a little too bright. He was there; he rolled this way, turned that way, followed the light when prompted, and answered questions- one word, or at least the fewest possible syllables necessary to keep from having to elaborate. He was aware enough to lie, apparently, since he answered six every time they asked about his level of pain, even when his hand was pressed against his chest and rubbing, his skin aglow with the sheen of sweat that hadn't quite beaded yet. If not for that, Kurt wouldn't have known that having a heart muscle that was starving for oxygen and dying one strand at a time actually hurt.

Apparently, it hurt a lot. Not that Blaine would ever admit it.

The issue wasn't that Blaine was having a hard time. After what he'd been through, what all of them had been through, he had every right to take his time resurfacing. But he wasn't surfacing. When they first let Kurt in yesterday after Blaine woke up from the coma, he'd actually been talking. He'd winced appropriately when the pain was eight and cracked a joke to distract them when the nurse came to empty his Foley bag, adjusted the bed himself when he felt like his head was too full or his toes too cold. But now he was falling under, the water too deep or too warm to bother with swimming anymore.

Kurt wasn't sure when things got to be too much, maybe the third time they emptied the catheter bag or the first time he tried to prove he could make it to the bathroom himself and ended up panting and out of breath after just swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Maybe it was when they brought up the surgery, or more likely the device they were going to implant in his chest that was going to do the work his heart couldn't do anymore, or the battery pack he'd have to wear. Even though he'd joked about it being Nightbird's utility belt, Kurt hadn't missed the thickening of his voice when he said it, or the way his chin pulled in a fraction of an inch.

And now Blaine had been hours staring off in the distance as though concentrating on a private conversation in his head.

EKG, pH.

"What day is it?"

Kurt was startled from his thoughts, immediately sitting up straighter in his chair and leaning forward in his effort to do anything, anything at all for Blaine if he would just keep talking. "Um, it's still Monday. One day since you woke up, and two days until you get to go home." He didn't mention that they were only releasing Blaine because his dad was a doctor and Carole had volunteered her nursing services or that they had to have an entire truckload delivered from the Medical Supply warehouse in order to take care of him.

Heart rate, temperature.

"Don't you have school?" Two questions in a row was a win, but Blaine hadn't so much as looked at him, yet, and Kurt grew leery as to where this line of questioning was heading.

"I got my professors to send me lecture notes and accept my papers via email. They understand about... circumstances."

"But don't you have a big Vocal Performance eval on Friday? You're not going to stake your grade on your shoddy laptop mic, are you?"

Kurt balked. He'd actually been hoping to do just that, if Madame Tibideaux agreed.

Pulse ox, Foley.

Blaine moved then, rolled over in his bed so he was facing Kurt, and if it wasn't for the wires and tubes, it could've been just like all those conversations they'd had last year while Blaine sprawled on his or Kurt's bed doing his homework or working on some music arrangement or other. Kurt recognized it as the 'Blaine has an idea, and he's excited about it,' lurch. Kurt had learned to pay attention to the lurch, because it was usually followed by something either crazy intuitive and inspiring or just crazy cheesy. Either way there were usually smiles or giggles and hearts bursting at the seams directly after.

"Kurt, you have to go back."

This wasn't one of those times.

"I'm not just going to leave you. What kind of boyfriend would I be if...?"

"The kind who swore to me that you'd never let any of my... stuff, keep you from being as amazing as you can be."

"This is not just stuff. This is end stage heart failure." He took a breath to keep his throat from collapsing and lower his voice to an acceptable conversational pitch. He willed his tongue into submission, not wanting any of his words slurred together and lost in translation from emotional to rational. "If you don't get a new one, you'll d..." He couldn't finish the sentence, clamped down on himself, couldn't even look at Blaine while the thought was in his mind.

EKG, pH. Inhale. Exhale.

Blaine gave him a beat before he replied, his voice softer, sensitive and aware in a way that was so far removed from the robotic responses he'd been giving since he woke up. Kurt couldn't help but listen. He'd missed this so much. "You think I don't know that? Kurt, you're watching monitors and listening to alarms to figure out how I'm doing, but I can feel it."

Kurt couldn't help the strangled noise that squeaked out of his throat, looked away as Blaine tightened his grip around his hand and added the second for emphasis.

Heart rate. Temperature.

Blaine followed his gaze and caught his chin before he could turn his head to check the next bank of monitors.

"Kurt, you can't fix any of that," Blaine soothed. "I have people around me every hour of the day to fix all of that, and they're the best at what they do. It's their job. Not yours." He stroked over Kurt's wrists with his thumbs. "But you, Kurt you're... you're not my whole life." A mirthless chuckle as he fixed his gaze on their hands. "I'm required by my therapist to say that." Eyelashes swept low as his glassy irises met Kurt's. "But you are the light in that life, the music, the sunlight, the... inspiration. When you're out there being amazing and taking the world by storm, then I am, too. That... that's where you have to be. Not here. In the middle of all this."

Kurt looked up then, expecting to see some iteration of the Blaine he'd been looking at for the last five days, grey and sunken and lifeless, the Blaine of his nightmares. What he saw wasn't far removed from that, still not quite right with bruises under his eyes and ice in his fingertips, but part of what had been missing was back. A certainty, a spark, a... purpose.

Something in his eyes.

If Kurt looked past the sunkenness and just concentrated on the gleam, he could almost see the Blaine he knew, the one who'd listened to him oscillate between songs for weeks leading up to his NYADA audition and then handed him the perfect piece. These eyes were the same, had the same shine, the same confidence. Whatever Blaine was thinking, what he was suggesting, he believed in it with his whole being.

Kurt couldn't look.

Instead he looked at... heart rate... again, temperature... again.

"But, Blaine, I need to be here. I don't think I can just go back and sing and dance and act like none of this is happening. Y-you can't ask me to."

"I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm just reminding you who you are and pointing out that this is killing you. You can't be here anymore, Kurt. You need to go back to New York and crush that evaluation, because when you win, I win."

When Kurt didn't reply, eyes frozen, of all places on the collection bag clipped to the side of the bed, thinking instead, how it was too full and the nurse should come and empty it, wondering if he should press the button and call one himself, Blaine played his trump card.

"Kurt, you promised."

Kurt wasn't actually sure that he ever _had_ made that promise, but just knowing that Blaine _believed_ he had made it impossible for him to go back on it, not when so much else that had been promised to him in the last year seemed to have been reneged upon.

That's when the nurse came in. She noticed the way Blaine was turned on the bed and made small talk while she handled the dirty work. "Looking a little livelier today, Blaine," she observed. "Don't tell me you're just excited about going home and leaving us. You're breaking my heart," she teased.

"No, actually," and Blaine rolled back to his normal position in the bed, allowing her to straighten the sheets around him, suddenly the consummate charmer that made just about everyone want to kiss him. "I was just telling Kurt how excited I am for his big Vocal Performance evaluation on Friday. Kurt has an amazing singing voice. He's going to blow them away. What song were you thinking you'd sing, Kurt?"

"Um, I was thinking maybe 'Being Alive,' from 'Company,'" he mumbled.

"That's...wow, that's perfect," Blaine's eyes went wide and dreamy, his head falling back on the pillow. " _You're_ perfect."

"Yeah," Kurt agreed, still shell shocked and wondering what had just happened.

"You're going to kill that evaluation."

He guessed he had a plane ticket to buy.

-#-

Two days later, Blaine watched Kurt from the passenger seat as he paced the car until it rolled to a stop, his hand already on the door handle when it shifted into park and the locks clicked open. He popped the door almost in slow motion as if he expected Blaine to fall out as soon as he removed the support, then leaned in.

"Hey, baby." They shared a soft kiss as Kurt grasped Blaine's bicep and reached across to undo the seatbelt with his other hand while Blaine removed the oxygen tube. His dad didn't make him drag the tank around with him, but he had to wear the cannula whenever he was sitting or lying down, which was still most of the time, anyway.

Blaine accepted the help as he focused all of his effort on swinging his legs around so Kurt could pull him up to standing, hated that he had to then pause and wait for the world to stop spinning. When his focus sharpened again, Kurt's hand was on his face, thumb scratching over his stubbled jaw with a bemused expression on his face. Blaine didn't bother to explain that changing out of a hospital gown and into actual clothes for the first time in almost week had been so exhausting, he'd curled up on his side and gone right back to sleep afterward, missing his standing appointment with Nurse Patty to 'get his chin scraped' as she liked to call it. Having checked his reflection in the vanity mirror on the back of his sun visor once he got in the car, he'd decided he actually preferred the look. The scruff did a fair job of camouflaging the otherwise sallow pallor he'd earned dragging the bone weariness along with him like a parachute through water.

"Accessorizing with texture is all the rage in Milan this spring," Kurt quipped, but Blaine didn't miss the dark bruises Kurt was sporting under his eyes as well. His hair was still perfectly styled, but there wasn't a moisturizer in the world that could put back what life had sucked out of him in the last week. Life, and Lima, Ohio. Nothing six hundred miles of space between them wouldn't help to remedy once Kurt went back to New York. Back where he belonged. Where no one was sick or dying.

Blaine felt like he owed a quip in return, felt like he needed to keep things light so he stayed the only one sinking, but at the moment he was distracted by breathing. He couldn't find any suitable words through the swirl of smoke in his head. Locking his eyes on the front door, he shrugged off the helping hands offered by his dad and boyfriend and made it up the five steps on his own, which was a huge accomplishment, considering he'd only made it to the bathroom without assistance for the first time that morning. That didn't stop Cooper from opening the door just as he reached the top and engulfing him in a hug that, truth be told, probably kept him from faceplanting into the grand foyer.

"Blainey! Look at you," he pointed, double barrels. "Inspired, buddy! Brought a tear to my eye." He made a show of ushering Blaine through the door like they were long estranged drinking buddies home from a night on the town, and Blaine was grateful for the arm around his waist that might've been half-carrying him across the threshold but looked and felt casual. He wondered how long Cooper had practiced that particular ruse. "Wait 'til you see what Mom and your boy Kurt have been up to all morning. They have got you set up in style, buddy."

Blaine had heard. Half the drive back from Columbus had been spent with his dad regaling him with tales of Kurt's attempts to make over the sitting room into something with a healthier flow of Chi according to the laws of Feng Shui. The other half was spent in the awkward silence that blanketed the car whenever Blaine realized his father had asked him a question and was waiting on an answer, but Blaine didn't know either because he was too busy wondering if it was worth the effort to try and reach the incline controls at his feet so he could lay the seat back. The compression sock fiasco from earlier that morning suggested the answer was no.

They paused at the foot of the staircase, not because they intended to go up but because Blaine figured that was as good a place as any to stop and catch his breath, leaning on the banister as casually as he could while pretending the other three weren't just standing there listening to him breathe. He knew it was just because they cared and because they'd bought into all the doom and gloom Dr. Luxeter had spoon fed them, were just concerned about doctor's orders and making sure Blaine didn't 'accidentally' kill himself, but the constant hovering and coddling made him want to explode.

Accidents happened. Que sera, sera. They needed to let it go.

Exploding would've taken energy he didn't have, though, so instead, he gritted his teeth and planned out the second leg of his walk like it was complicated choreography. He just had to get to the sitting room without falling down or passing out. No big deal, right?

Except, as it turned out, getting there wasn't nearly as big a deal as what he found when he got there.

His piano, the baby grand he'd performed impromptu concerts for friends and relatives on since he was old enough to reach the keys, the one in front of the huge window he'd sat gazing out for hours while piecing together a new arrangement or the occasional original song, reaping inspiration from the drop of leaves or spray of sunlight across the impeccable landscaping, was shoved aside. In front of the window, instead, was the hospital bed his parents had rented and smaller versions of all the equipment he'd left back in the CCU. He could see Kurt's touch in the lines of the room, the addition of decorative screens to hide some of the clutter and Blaine's desk and dresser from his room upstairs arranged to be accessible in the fewest steps possible without disrupting the flow of Chi.

It was practical, and tasteful, and as much as it could be, both fashionable and comfortable.

And entirely too much.

No, really. Too much. And the smile on his mother's face as if she'd just revealed one of her signature flower arrangements at one of her painstakingly prepared dinner parties, was the last spoonful of sugar that made the whole thing too sickening sweet to swallow.

So, he didn't. Instead, he spun on his heel and did his best to storm off through the humiliation of having to use the wall to hold himself up all the way to the living room where he collapsed on the couch and switched on the television.

He refused to cry. The time for that was long past.

He felt his family gathered just outside the room watching him, pretending like he wasn't supposed to know they brought him home to die, like that... whatever that was back in there where he used to make music... like it wasn't a set robbed out of some romantic tragedy they'd drawn up on the final storyboards of his life specifically to frame the perfect death scene.

They thought he didn't know, but he knew.

They could talk all they wanted about ventricular assist devices and how someday they'd be so advanced that heart transplants themselves would be obsolete, but he knew that someday wasn't today. And they could laugh at his jokes about making his battery pack a part of his Nightbird costume, but only because sometimes life only handed you the choice to laugh or to cry knowing full well one would only ever be a mask for the other.

They told him he'd get on the list, for sure. He was young, talented, charismatic, as if any of those things mattered. He knew what they weren't saying. He knew that whatever group of stodgy old doctors reviewed his petition to receive a donor heart would have no appreciation for talent, no vehicle by which to experience his character, just the case file of a kid with a fresh diagnosis of mental illness and a propensity to disregard doctor's orders and accidentally harm himself in the process. See, he knew they would call it that... harm. They wouldn't dismiss the times he almost offed himself, because hey, he didn't really mean it. They couldn't take chances on accidents of that nature, not with the life of a donated heart at stake. They'd say he was unstable and at an age where he was going to be breaking ties, moving away from home and whatever support system he had in place. They'd say a musician would never be able to afford thousands of dollars a month in anti-rejection drugs on top of what he'd already have to spend on psych meds once he aged off of his parents' insurance. They knew if he had to choose between eating today and a pharmacy bill tomorrow, he'd eat. He'd eat. He'd sing. He'd dance. He'd live.

But someone else wouldn't. Someone who deserved it more than he did.

And there was no way that was going to happen. That's what they'd say.

So, no one came out and said that it was his death bed set up across the hall, but not saying it didn't make it any less fact.

The couch dipped to his left, and Kurt patted his thighs as he sat down, beckoning with his fingers for Blaine to put his feet across his lap. He did with a smile, because Kurt didn't know what Blaine knew, and Blaine intended to keep it that way. He feigned a ticklish grin and wiggled as Kurt pretended that taking off Blaine's shoes was a flirtation and not a necessary way to remove the constriction from his swollen feet.

"You're amazing," he sighed, slouching back into the overstuffed leather cushions as his father wheeled the oxygen tank up beside him and handed him the cannula without a word. He knew he said it a lot, but he hoped Kurt wasn't tired of hearing it yet, because he couldn't possibly say it enough. "I can't believe you spent your last day in town setting all of this up for me."

"I still have time if there's something you'd like me to change. I know it's not quite as comfy or private as your room upstairs, but..."

"It's perfect." Blaine schooled his features into his best dreamy-eyed infatuated school boy expression. Not that it had far to go. Kurt had that effect on him still. Even if the physical expression of their connection was now unloading trucks and moving furniture because the bed they made love in for the first time wasn't suitable for dying in, the emotional connection remained.

"Are you sure?" Kurt's expression was guardedly hopeful atop something else Blaine couldn't quite pin down. "You-you seemed a little taken aback."

"Overwhelmed, maybe," Blaine admitted, holding a hand out for Kurt to take, the two of which ended up clasped over Blaine's stomach as Kurt continued to massage his lower legs with his other. "I can't believe how much time and effort you put into all of this, just for me. You should've been practicing for your big performance evaluation."

"Please," Kurt dismissed. "Lifting furniture is great for developing core strength, and good breath control starts in the core. Consider this my warm-up." He glanced down at their hands then back up. "Seriously, though... you like it?"

"I _love_ it," he said. "Just like I love everything you do. I'm just... not ready for bed, yet, I don't think."

"Good," Kurt grinned. "Because we made you fresh tomato soup for lunch, and I hate to think we slaughtered all those healthy young tomatoes just so you could mope around and ignore us all day."

Blaine tilted his chin up as Kurt slid out from under his legs and stood up, presumably to fix the lunch, and leaned down to kiss him before unclasping their hands. Blaine blinked slowly, licked his lips. "Yummy." Then he held his sleepy grin, following Kurt with his eyes until he disappeared around the corner before dropping the smile and curling into the back of the couch.

-#-

He didn't mean to fall asleep, but for some reason that last conversation with Kurt took more out of him than he realized. When he awoke, the soup was sitting cold on the coffee table, the television blaring, because apparently, he'd fallen asleep on the remote. He wondered how long it had been turned up that loud and whether everyone was still in the hallway watching him sleep and drawing straws to determine who was going to wake him up to get the remote. He was squinting down at the controller, willing his eyes to focus long enough find the volume when his father strolled across the room and turned the power off at the set.

He cleared his throat as he turned around. "Blaine. You've got visitors. Do you want to take them in here, or...?"

Blaine guessed not taking them at all wasn't one of the choices, so he squirmed around until his legs fell down to the floor and pushed himself into something of an upright position, his bladder twinging in the process. "Yeah, um, here is fine, Dad. Just... first, I need to..." He scooched as close to the edge of the cushion as he could get, looking up at his father from under his eyebrows in a way he hoped would get the message across without actually having to ask. He felt like a toddler when he reached his arms out, a signal his dad responded to by immediately stepping in front of him and levering him up off the couch. Blaine kept a tight grip on his dad's biceps while the sloshiness of his body settled to a ripple gentle enough for him to balance against, then headed for the bathroom, his father's hand still firmly on his elbow until he shook it off at the entrance to the hall. "I got it from here."

Once he finished in the bathroom, he took a few extra minutes to freshen up, still not confident in his ability to remain upright long enough to shave but splashing water over his face and stripping off his undershirt, which had taken on a musky, sick scent from sleeping between the leather couch cushions, before putting his Dalton Fight Club sweatshirt back on. It had been a birthday present from Finn, a novelty gag gift that he'd gotten way more use out of than he ever would have expected when he opened it last summer. His hair was starting to frizz, having only had a dry shampoo that morning, but he was afraid what adding water might do, so he ran the fingers of one hand through it while the other propped him up against the sink, and after giving himself a quick sniff, found his bag of toiletries on top of the new shower chair they must've brought in that morning, and rolled on some deodorant. He still looked crap, but smelled a lot less like death warmed over. Small victories, he supposed.

He must've taken longer than he thought, because Kurt was just about to knock when Blaine opened the door. Hand raised awkwardly, he reached forward for a second, as if to offer Blaine some assistance, and when that was ignored, let it fall to his side. "I was just... Are you... Did you find everything?"

Blaine hated the worried stammer, too reminiscent of the scared, broken spy they'd taken to coffee back when they were still the same height and Blaine could pull off a relatively passable impersonation of the out and proud guy Kurt could lean on and take courage from. He pulled on his best boyish grin, mostly a product of muscle memory at that point, and caught Kurt in his gaze. "Almost," he offered, slightly leading in his tone.

"A-almost?" Kurt asked, flustered, the flush on his cheeks completely involuntary but exactly what Blaine was going for. "Did we forget something?"

"Just this," Blaine teased, backing him up against the wall on the far side of the hallway before kissing him soundly between the branches of a silk Ficus tree and a black and white framed portrait of some family member Blaine had never met. He and his dad had an awkward chat that morning about how his heart really wasn't healthy enough for sexual activity, but they hadn't said anything about kissing. If anything, those few seconds of trading breath, leaning together with static between their hips and fingertips, were the most alive he'd felt in a week. It was almost enough to make him regret convincing Kurt to go back to school, the certainty that he'd probably never have this again making him consider never letting it go at all. But only almost enough. They stayed together a couple extra beats, foreheads pressed together while Blaine focused on standing up, determined not to let the heavy sloshing of his limbs throw him off balance.

"Your audience awaits," Kurt sighed, as reluctant to share as Blaine was to break the bubble.

Slightly invigorated, Blaine made his way back to the living room, proud that he made it without bracing against the wall, his gait almost normal when he made his entrance, all smiles and open arms.

He managed not to get knocked over as Sam and Tina glommed onto him, his mother covering her mouth to keep from admonishing them for being too rough, and if Artie noticed that Blaine used one of the handles on his wheelchair to brace himself up while they traded bro-shakes, he didn't say anything.

"Hey, guys! I can't believe you all came. That's-" he took a second to nod at the rest of the Glee club piled onto the furniture around him, Mr. Schuester and Miss Pillsbury in front of the fireplace beside his parents, "that's so sweet. I missed you guys!"

Kurt's hand spread against the small of his back, just enough pressure to suggest he move to the sofa without blatantly putting him there himself.

"Believe me when I say we missed you way more, dude," Sam said. "School has been torture without my best bro. Did you know that when the Student Council President is unable to fulfill his duties, they actually expect the Vice President to, you know, _do_ stuff?"

He sank into the couch, trying to hold his amicable smile as his center of gravity shifted and caused his entire fluid volume to follow it like the moon driving the tides. "I actually did know that," he smirked, "which is why I obviously picked the right man for the job." He gestured for Sam and Tina to take the last two seats on the couch beside him, then asked, "Do you mind if I...?" before pulling the handle at his right hand to recline his section back while elevating his feet. He looped the cannula under his nose and turned the oxygen back on, noted the way his dad relaxed against the fireplace once he did.

Kurt noticed the bowl of soup still untouched on the coffee table and scooped it up. "I'll just go reheat this. I don't know about you, but I was never really a fan of gazpacho. "Does anybody need or want anything?" He offered.

"No, we're good," Mr. Schuester answered for the collective. "We won't stay too long. I know it's Blaine's first day at home. We don't want to keep you from getting settled."

"Yeah, we just all wanted to see for ourselves that you're okay," Tina added. "Finn's been keeping us up to date, but we were really worried when they wouldn't let anyone visit you in the hospital."

"Well, there's that, and then there's the elephant seal in the room, flailing its wrinkly grey proboscis and belly flopping all over the question that everyone really wants to ask but is afraid to," Brittany hinted, "which is, since you didn't die, Blaine Warbler, when can you come back to Glee? Regionals is in two weeks, and we can't do your song without... well, _you_."

"Brittany!" Artie admonished. "That was really insensitive."

"No, actually, I was just being sensitive to the way all of you were standing around looking like you were having gas pains from trying not to mention Regionals, and now you're all looking at me like I cut the cheese even though you're the ones with stink face. So, I ask, based on the evidence at hand, who really broke wind here? I think America would agree, that he who smelt it definitely dealt it, and I smell delicious."

While the exchange was somewhat amusing, Blaine really didn't want to waste time waiting for it to reach its natural conclusion. "Actually, guys, I'm not even supposed to be out of the hospital right now. They just released me because my dad's a doctor, and Carole got the hospital to let her do her hours here since she's only been part-time, anyway, since they got that apartment in D.C. If everything goes according to plan, I'll be going in for surgery on Monday morning and be out of commission until well after Regionals."

"So, where does that leave us?" Tina asked. Then, catching a glare from Wade and Marley added, "What? The cat's already out of the bag. I'm just adding to the conversation."

Mr. Schuester stepped away from the fireplace. "I hate to say it, guys, but I think we've put off the inevitable as long as we possibly can. I'll call tomorrow and let the council know that we're withdrawing from the competition. It's probably too soon after... everything, for us to give it a proper run anyway."

"Now, wait a minute," Blaine argued. "I said that I wasn't going to be able to perform. I didn't say that you all shouldn't do it." They weren't the captains of this sinking ship. No one had to go down with him.

"But how can we without you? You're our leader," Sam pointed out.

"Maybe, but I'm still just one guy. I'm perfectly fine with you and Artie taking over my vocals for the 'Stigmatized' number, and I've seen Artie work the keyboard enough times to know he could handle the accompaniment if Brad can't do it. A keyboard will be easier to lug around, anyway."

"That still leaves us one man short, though," Mr. Schuester said.

"Not really." Kurt re-appeared, the bowl of steaming soup on a television tray with half a grilled cheese sandwich. "I checked into the Show Choir rulebook, and as long as all competitors agree that these are extenuating circumstances, you can request to perform one man short. People get sick on competition day all the time. You wouldn't be the first group to work that particular loophole." He waited for Blaine to straighten his seat back to a more upright position before handing him the tray, not missing the way Blaine grinned up at him.

"Look at you swooping in to save the day," Blaine teased. "My superhero," he sighed.

"Eat," Kurt ordered. Then, standing he added, "You won't be able to use the same loophole for Nationals, though."

"That's not 'til the end of next month, anyway," Sam pointed out. "Blaine'll be back in commission by then, won't he?"

The awkward silence that followed was answer enough.

Blaine tried to eat, but these days the mere act of digestion took as much out of him as a trip to the bathroom, and after three bites, he gave up pretending to eat between fielding questions.

"So, uh, Blaine," Schuester ventured, "tell us about this surgery you've got coming up."

"They're putting in something called a ventricular assist device," Blaine divulged. "I'm really lucky because my dad knows one of the doctors who can actually do the surgery without cracking my chest open, so the recovery time should be a lot shorter."

"What's a ventricular assist device," Marley asked.

"The right side of my heart is too damaged to pump blood to my lungs, and the device will pretty much take over that job."

"For how long?" Tina asked.

Blaine shrugged, the handle of the spoon rattling against the side of the bowl. "It can be pretty long term. They usually give them to people who are on the transplant list and waiting for a donor or who are not suitable candidates to receive a transplant."

"Which are you?" Jake queried.

With a sardonic twist of his eyebrow, Blaine said, "I'm the guy that's gonna die while they try to figure that out." He didn't know why he said it. It wasn't untrue, but it definitely wasn't their burden to carry. His. It was his burden and no one else's. "I'm sorry," he apologized when the room went suddenly silent. "I'm just a little over tired, I think. We've already started the process of getting me on the list. It just takes a while to get approved is all." His fingers smeared over the cold steel of the tray where a drip of soup had splattered, rubbing over it until there was nothing but a smudge on the gloss. "I guess I just feel a little judged, waiting for people I've never met to decide if I get to start over with a new heart or I'll have to go on as long as I can wearing that stupid battery pack."

"Wait," Artie interjected. "There's a battery pack?"

"Dude, a battery pack? You're going to be like fully droided up now," Sam speculated. "You're practically more robot parts than human."

"He is not part robot," Kurt muttered.

"Ooooh, next Halloween you and me are definitely going as C3PO and R2D2." Sam grinned big, obviously proud of himself.

"Who's who?" Blaine asked, playing along.

"Well," Sam conjectured, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "the way I see it, I'd totally be C3PO, because I'm..."

"Taller?" Artie guessed.

"Blonder," Sam corrected. "And you'd totally be R2D2, because you're..."

"Cuter?" Blaine offered.

Sam shrugged. "Well, I was going to go with obvious fan favorite, but sure, that works, too."

"I want to be an Ewok," Brittany joined. "They're furry, they don't wear many clothes, and they throw really great parties."

"Heck yeah," Jake chuckled, "Count me in for the naked furry party in the jungle."

"Well, all right, then." Blaine's dad clapped his hands together. "You kids seem to have things under control. I think I'll leave you to the stimulating conversation while I get a few things straightened up in the other room. Just another half hour, though, okay? Blaine needs his rest." He patted Blaine's shoulder on his way past. "Try to eat a few more bites, all right, Son?"

He nodded and managed two more bites before he dropped the remainder of the grilled cheese into the soup bowl and pushed it around with his spoon until it soaked up enough liquid to make it look like he ate at least half, nodding and chuckling along to whatever inane tangent the rest of the group ended up chasing. Eventually, Kurt took the tray and helped him recline the seat back once more, his eyes not meeting Blaine's when he whispered, "You're bulging."

-#-

The next time he opened his eyes, everyone was gone. Everyone except Kurt, who was sitting beside him, his computer open across his lap, and the television set to a muted broadcast of "The Voice." The irony wasn't lost on Blaine, but he didn't comment on it, since Kurt hadn't yet noticed he was awake. He was curious as to what Kurt was so engrossed in on his laptop but chose instead to just watch.

Kurt was wearing a watch Blaine had never seen before. It was probably new, since there was no way any watch could survive more than a day on his wrist with the incessant winding. Blaine picked up the pattern within just a few minutes. Turn the crown seven times, drum his fingers thrice, then a single tug on his ear lobe, a pause, probably while he counted backward from ten or something, then right back to winding. He'd noticed, of course he had, the new tics Kurt had picked up since the last time they were together. Was it only Valentine's Day? Less than two months, really? He saw, of course he saw, what it was doing to him, the crease in his forehead, the shadows under is eyes, all the more garish in the glare of the computer screen. Kurt thought he hid them well, all the little rituals, his attempts to somehow right what was off kilter in their universe. He couldn't. Of course he couldn't.

That avalanche had already been triggered. There was no stopping it until it hit the bottom.

Kurt wouldn't be here for that. No way he could stop it. Not with tics and rituals, with sky blue socks or sun yellow vests. Not even with love. But that wouldn't stop him from trying. Blaine wouldn't let that happen. He couldn't let Kurt have that failure on his conscience. Kurt had to go back to New York and win. He was them. He was them winning.

He had to go.

"You're awake." Kurt sat up, closing his laptop abruptly to smile in Blaine's direction, but not without finishing the seven turns, three strums, and one tug.

"You're still here," Blaine countered. "Don't you have an early flight in the morning?"

Kurt nodded. "I do, but no way I was going to leave without tucking you in first. You might have Carole and your parents at your beck and call, and Cooper for entertainment, but as long as I'm here, you're mine."

"Of course I am." Blaine tried and failed to raise the back of the couch by sitting up, but the mechanism seemed to have gotten exponentially stronger during his nap, and he couldn't quite get it to work. Kurt reached above him to lever the frame back up, his other hand reaching across himself to take Blaine's as he leaned in for a kiss.

As he sat back again, he searched Blaine's face before he said, "I got a reply from Carmen Tibideaux. She's okay with me doing my evaluation via Skype. You know what that means?"

Blaine smiled brightly even as his gut clenched around a block of ice. "No. What?" His thumb worked over the back of Kurt's hand.

"It means I don't have to go back until after your surgery." Kurt's smile was blinding, big enough to smooth out the line in his forehead and entrench a few more around his eyes. "I can stay."

Blaine laughed, letting his head fall back against the cushions as if that was the funniest joke he'd heard in a while. "Kurt, that's... amazing. I'm so happy that it worked out for you. But..."

Kurt's face fell immediately. "But what, Blaine?"

"But you can't really get the same experience that way, can you?" He tugged Kurt's hand a little closer, still stroking his thumb over the back in long, even strokes. "NYADA is a performance school. Isn't that why you picked it? So you could learn to perform under pressure?"

"Well, yes, but in this case."

"Anyone can film themselves or put a video up on YouTube, Kurt. Only the best of the best can deliver a flawless vocal performance while looking Carmen Tibideaux straight in the eye. You'll, you'll never be able to make the same impression doing it over Skype. You said yourself, the acoustics in that round room are unparalleled, the best reverb you can get anywhere. And you'd give that up for a chance to sing into a laptop mic?"

"I just... I thought... I want to..."

"I know." Blaine cut off any further protests with a kiss, dropping Kurt's hand to thread his fingers under his jaw and draw them closer together. He separated them for just a second, dry lips peeling away with a sound like cling wrap unspooling, and after a breath, tilted his chin and leaned back in, deeper this time. When they broke again, he said, "I know what you want to do for me, and I love you so much for that, Kurt. But you don't need to. I have all this, people tripping over themselves to make sure I'm comfortable, and as much as I love having you here so, so much, I can't be selfish. I can't keep you from where you belong."

They were still close enough for Kurt's eyes to cross ever-so-slightly as he blinked slowly enough to gather his thoughts but fast enough to hold back the rising tide below his lashline. "I belong here, with you."

"And you will be, in just a couple of weeks. You're still coming back for Regionals, right? And by then I-I'll have had my surgery, and you'll have a ton to learn about and do. Until then, I don't need you throwing your career down the gutter so you can walk me to the bathroom between naps and reheat the same bowl of soup three times." He looked down, re-linked their fingers, this time both hands. "I love you, and I love that you want to do that for me, I do. I just want you to remember that you matter, too, Kurt. You matter to me."

Kurt seemed to consider another argument briefly but then lunged forward for another kiss, this one much softer, salt-flavored from the one tear that slipped out as he shut his eyes. They stayed that way, lips barely touching, until Kurt relented. "I'm going to miss you so much."

"You just knock Madame Tibideaux's socks off with the best performance of 'Being Alive' that she's ever heard, and you better believe I'm going to hear it all the way in Lima."

Kurt chuckled, low and tight. "Who's the hopeless romantic now, Mr. Anderson?" he huffed into the space between them.

"You are my hope, Mr. Hummel, my amazing friend."

"I'm still going to miss you."

"Me, too." He would, but the romantic in him had seen that old movie enough times to know that Leah Thompson's character hit the nail right on the head when she said, it was better to be apart for the right reasons than together for the wrong ones. Blaine was right this time. He had to be.

-#-

Burt wasn't surprised to see light reflecting in a pool at the bottom of the stairs as he made his way blearily down, hands brushing the textured plaster for support since he'd never actually gotten around to raising the hand rail to a useful height after they bought the house from a family who apparently only used the upstairs bedrooms for their small children. He had no idea where the adults must have slept in that scenario, but if they needed all three bedrooms for children, they probably had to park an RV in the driveway for some privacy. He paused halfway down, not because he didn't know what he would find going on in his kitchen, but because he knew exactly what was going on and needed a moment to fully wake up before he had that particular conversation.

This would be their last chance to speak in person for a while. Santana would be there with the rental car to take them both to the airport within the hour. Burt could see the familiar carry-on parked at the bottom of the stairs for Kurt to snag on his way out. He glanced up the stairs to where Carole was standing, her hand on the rail as if she could transfer her support through it to him. She had to be at the Andersons' in a couple hours to start her first shift as Blaine's at-home nurse, but she knew Burt and his son needed to have this talk alone. She smiled and gave a short nod to encourage him before padding back down the hall.

Scrubbing a hand over his bald head, ball cap still firmly hung on the hook by the front door since he hadn't even had his coffee yet, he slid his stockinged feet down the remaining steps and took a deep breath. He'd hoped to be the first one up and have a few minutes alone at the kitchen table to mull things over, but Kurt either hadn't been to sleep at all or hadn't slept long enough for it to count.

As expected, Kurt was seated at the kitchen table with his laptop open in front of him and several stacks of perfectly stacked papers organized with different colored Post-It notes lined up beside each elbow. The laptop was plugged in beside the coffee pot, the cord snaking between the covered toaster and the apple-shaped cookie jar that was always empty and just there to coordinate with the apple themed towels and dish cloths draped over the oven rail and folded over the cupboard doors. If Kurt needed the cord, then he'd probably been at it long enough to run the battery down, and Burt knew that laptop had at least a five hour battery life.

"Kurt," he greeted.

"Coffee's on," Kurt replied without looking up.

Burt nodded. They'd only just checked out of the hotel in Columbus and come back to the house in Lima yesterday, and since no one had been home before that, except Finn when he stopped in once a day to get the paper and the mail out of the box, Kurt must've spent at least an hour straightening up and polishing the stainless steel before he even started on the computer. He'd never make coffee in a dusty pot, and never clean a dusty pot without emptying the sink of stray bowls or silverware, and never put away dishes without polishing the steel.

Burt had always attributed it to just being a good, helpful kid who didn't have a mother to tidy up behind him, but he hadn't missed the fact that the house practically sparkled when he came home from the hospital after his heart scare. He wasn't sure all of his nose hair had ever grown back in after being singed off by the overpowering scent of bleach when they first opened the door that time, and now he could feel a sneeze building in the back of his sinuses from the fresh burn.

"Must be some important assignment," Burt prodded.

"Not an assignment, actually." He didn't elaborate, but Burt got the feeling Kurt was building up to something at his own speed, so he let it lie for the moment.

He fetched a coffee mug from the cupboard and busied himself fixing a cup, trying to decide the best way to approach the subject on his mind. He knew his son too well. If he came at this from the wrong direction, he'd make things worse, and really, he didn't want to know how much worse they could get. He'd never had to worry about his son being a night owl growing up, since part of Kurt's moisturizing and self-care routine had always included eight solid hours of mandatory beauty sleep, but if what he'd gathered from Finn and Santana were anything to go by, this run of all-nighters wasn't a new development. And Burt didn't like it. Not one bit.

"When's that surgery again?" Burt knew full well that the surgery was scheduled for Monday morning, a little over a week after Blaine's ablation to give him a chance to heal and Dr. Anderson's friend from California time to fly in for the procedure. Kurt had already explained the exact timeline to him enough times for it to be burned into his long term memory. Plus, it was on the refrigerator. He was just dipping a toe in the waters before diving in. Maybe they weren't in as deep as he thought.

He just hoped they weren't deeper.

"Monday morning, unless the surgeon has an emergency and can't make the flight in. Then, they'd postpone it. Dr. Carson is one of only a handful of surgeons in the country that can do the minimally invasive procedure they just developed, and we really don't want to have to resort to open heart surgery if we don't have to."

Burt raised his eyebrows. Same answer. It was the exact same answer Kurt gave every single time someone asked, and the sad part was, he never got annoyed at having to repeat it. He almost seemed to jump at the chance, as if saying the right thing over and over again would magically make things right. It wouldn't, and Burt was all for hope and for faith, but the way he understood it, you gained them by giving up the illusion of control and making peace with that.

Kurt was never really one to give up anything. Which was why he was winding a watch he wasn't even wearing. It took a pretty good swallow, which he covered by scrubbing a hand over his chin, for Burt to choke down the lump that had formed in his throat before he spoke.

"Where's your watch?"

It was obvious from the way Kurt started when he looked at his wrist that he had forgotten it wasn't there. "It broke."

"That happens sometimes, when things get wound too tight." He set his cup down, realizing he hadn't even taken a sip as a splash of coffee sloshed over the rim and onto his finger. He raised it to his lips with a hiss, the jolt of pain shocking him from his thoughtful stupor. "Dammit. Kurt, can we talk here? Man to man?"

Without waiting for an answer, which it didn't look like he was going to get if the self-conscious tilt of Kurt's chin was any indicator, Burt dragged a chair back from the table with a satisfying scrape that would've awakened the entire household, were they not already up. Before sitting down, he used the back of it to brace against as he leaned down, reaching out to put a hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Hey, kiddo, look at me when I'm talking to you, okay? I'm not mad, and you're not in trouble for anything, but you're also not being straight with me, now, are you?"

He waited there, bent over and searching as Kurt's face started to crumple. A second later, he was grateful for the chair beside him as Kurt lunged out of his and nearly knocked him back into the counter. He used it to keep them both upright long enough to get his own bearings before leaning into the embrace and locking both arms around his shaking son. "It's okay, kid. I gotcha."

As one man interventions went, it seemed this one was going pretty well. "Kurt, is there something you wanted to tell me? You can tell me anything, you know that?"

Burt waited as his shirt front got sticky and Kurt just nodded against the pillow of his chest without saying anything. He'd spent enough time with Blaine in the months since Kurt left for New York to know that the best thing to do in these situations was wait. In fact, he owed that time spent with Blaine for the awareness that something more was going on with his own son than he'd been willing to admit, too quick over the years to dismiss as quirky and detail-oriented, a little uptight. He was only now starting to see that when some people got sick... in a certain way, they took less care- of themselves, their things, their responsibilities- and when others got sick... in that way, they took more care- held tighter to control they never really had, dwelled longer on things that used to take no time at all. But sick was sick, and if Kurt needed help, then they needed to get that ball rolling now before he went back to NYADA, which he now knew had no support system in place at all for these kinds of things.

As the tears dried up, and the silence got heavier with the increased weight of the air between them, Burt massaged his hands over Kurt's shoulders before pulling them apart and locking bloodshot eyes on his own. Raising his eyebrows, he waited for Kurt to unload whatever it was that was weighing on him so heavily, was already prepared to hear some version of 'I need help,' or 'I'm not okay.'

What he got, instead, was another page he wasn't even sure came from the same book.

"I- Dad, I lied to him."

-#-

Sick and exhausted, or even exhausted from being sick, there was really only so much sleeping Blaine could actually do in one day, and as it worked out, doing a lot of during the day left a lot of empty, wide awake hours to fill in the middle of the night. He wondered if maybe being forced to sleep for days in a drug-induced coma had thrown his entire diurnal cycle off, but part of him knew that wasn't true. He'd been here before. When he got out of the hospital his freshman year, after the bashing and before he transferred to Dalton, he'd spent more than a few nights wide awake and watching the digital numbers rearrange their stick legs for hours at a time. That was how he'd known his parents fought about him, was where he'd done his best thinking, when he'd gotten his greatest inspirations. Anyway, it had turned out not to be such a healthy pattern at the time, made it a whole lot easier to just drift off in the back seat of that old Chevy when he should have been running for the door. But at the time, those hours in the middle of the night had been a regular part of his daily routine.

Only four nights out of the coma, and he'd already established the pattern.

The first night, his mind had still been sluggish but optimistically so, grateful just to be alive after the nightmare of the shooting and everything that happened during the lockdown.

By the second, the pain and the full weight of his condition had him wondering why he ever woke up at all.

Last night, there'd been planning, lots of it, and practicing. He was going home, had to be on his game. He practiced his smiles. Of course he would be thrilled to be home. He'd be happy to have all of his friends there gaping at him and feeling sorry for him, happy that his entire family and Kurt's rearranged their lives and their home to accommodate how pathetic he'd become. He'd gladly hand over his song so they could go on and win Regionals while he waited for the flutter in his chest to just stop already, so he could be done. Thrilled. Gladly. With a smile that he had to practice to make it true.

And he practiced his jokes, because of course Nightbird needed a utility belt. That was funny. Battery packs were hilarious.

Okay, the joking was harder to pull off.

Mostly he practiced his lies. Not enough to make sure everyone else believed them, but because he wanted to believe them himself. He wanted to believe that Kurt would be happier in New York where he didn't have to waste all of his time doting on his helpless(hopeless) boyfriend. He wanted to believe that Kurt knocking Carmen Tibideaux's socks off was enough success for the both of them, even if Blaine was never going to get a chance like that himself.

Most of all, he wanted to believe that when that flutter in his chest downgraded to a quiver and then stopped altogether, which it would, he had no doubt it would, that he was okay with it happening there in the dark, in the night, while he was alone with his thoughts and alone in the room his family made for him to die in, and there would be no tears until he was blissfully unaware.

How did that old saying go? All over but the cryin'. That was Blaine.

They would all be better off without him. He didn't need to believe that. He just knew.

Or he thought he did. Yesterday. Last night.

Tonight, he woke up like always, around two a.m. And just like always, the world was dark and silent except for the hiss of the oxygen, and the blips on the portable EKG he had to be connected to while he slept, apparently so that everyone else could sleep as well, knowing there would be an alarm before Blaine did anything stupid like dying before he woke.

But tonight his pillow still smelled like Kurt, who'd tucked him in as promised and then snuggled with him until he drifted off. And tonight, less than twenty four hours from the official full moon, the yard was lit up, the trees not yet leafed out enough to block the beams cascading through the branches as they washed over the yard, the first tulips and hyacinths towering up over the fading crocus blooms along the deck. Tonight, instead of booting up the laptop, now that he had access again, and writing up all those letters he'd been penning in his head from his hospital bed, he caught himself watching the pussy willows and leafless forsythia stretch their branches over his comforter in shadow, something ethereal and quiet in their craggy sprawl. Tonight he imagined whether or not he and Sam could actually pull off C3PO and R2D2 some Halloween. Tonight, all the pictures that used to decorate the top of his piano were fixed to the walls around him, new frames filled with old, cherished memories.

He glanced at the clock. 3:30. Santana was going to be picking Kurt up within the half hour. By the time the rest of Blaine's family woke up, the love of his life would be on a plane back to New York, where he belonged, and even though he swore he wouldn't, tonight Blaine missed him... so much.

Something was different. Something was wrong. Heavy, achey, and slow. His vision narrowed, one branch, one photograph, one shadow, one bloom, until they were all blurred together, so many motes in a single narrowing beam of moonlight, and he couldn't make sense of any of them, couldn't find the meaning in any one. If he tried to make sense of it, to close his hand around one and draw it in, the whole sea of them slid through his fingers and the tiny cracks in his mind, so he was left with nothing but air and darkness, the pieces pushed farther away.

It was happening. Tonight, and he wasn't ready. Not yet.

It was happening. Tonight, and he was alone.

It was happening. Tonight. All over. And he was crying.

-#-

Burt couldn't help the squint of bewilderment he felt crinkling his expression all the way up his bald head. "Kurt? Buddy? I-I'm not following."

"Blaine," Kurt explained. "I lied to him." Shaking his head, he backed out of his father's grip and fell into the chair behind him, dropping his face into his hands with a sound that was somewhere between broken sob and angry growl. "I told him Carmen Tibideaux gave me permission to do my performance evaluation via Skype." His fingers curled against his temples, knuckles buried in his hair. "Of course she didn't. She would never make an exception like that. Not for anything."

"So, why did you say it?"

Kurt slammed his hands down on the table, the vibration and draft lifting and spreading the carefully stacked pages in front of him. "Because I-I wanted him to be happy for me. I wanted him to be relieved that I could stay with him. I wanted him to _want_ me to stay. I just wanted him to say that he needed me here. He didn't even need to ask me to say. He could just be happy for me, and I'd know that's what he wanted."

Burt slumped into the chair he'd pulled out but left it backed against the counter, leaning forward, elbows to knees and hands steepled together in front of him. "I'm no Sherlock Holmes or anything, but there's a packed bag in the entryway that says things didn't quite go the way you planned. Am I right?"

"No!" Kurt clamped his eyes shut and exhaled. "I mean, yes, you're right, and no, they didn't go the way I planned. Not at all." Kurt spun around in his chair so they were face to face again. "He pretended to be happy for me for like a second before coming up with half a dozen reasons why I needed to do the performance in person. It was like he couldn't push me out the door fast enough."

Burt straightened slightly. "Look, Kurt, I'm sure that had to smart a little, but you know Blaine's got a lot going on right now. Maybe he thought that's what you wanted him to say."

"No, Dad, no. That's not it. Not at all. He knew exactly what he was saying. Ever since he woke up from his coma, he has exactly two settings- Robot and Doting Boyfriend. Long Distance Boyfriend. All he talks about is me going back to New York. It's like he can't wait for me to leave." His voice broke on the last syllable and he hastily brushed at his cheeks, already shiny and red with emotion.

"Kurt...I..." Burt braced his palms on his knee caps, at a loss, because this was definitely not the conversation he'd been preparing for on his way down the stairs that morning. "I know you're not questioning Blaine's feelings for you, because he loves you. Anyone can see that."

"I know that. Dad, I know that!"

"Then what's this about, Kurt, because I'm sorry, but I'm just not seeing what you're seeing. You're gonna have to spell it out for me, here."

"He's giving up!" A fresh swell of tears blinked free, and this time he didn't try to wipe them away. "I-I don't know if he's... planning something... or if he knows something he's not telling me, but he's giving up. He thinks he's dying, and he..." He broke off with a choke. "And he doesn't want me to be here when it happens."

This time, Burt was the one closing the gap between them, lurching forward out of his chair to pull Kurt's head into his stomach, and despite the pressure in his throat, didn't try to offer any arguments, because part of him knew that lump was the truth.

A car horn honked twice from the curb, and they both stilled, aware that Santana and a plane to New York awaited, certain that what they did in the next breath might well tip the Scales of Fate.

Kurt sniffled, his voice quieter than Burt had ever heard it. "Dad, I have a confession. I wasn't doing homework all night. This is all the paperwork I need to withdraw from school for the rest of the semester."

A knock on the door.

"Dad, I can't leave. Not now. I need to be here, more than ever."

Burt clapped him on the back. "I'll get the door."

Wrapping his arms around himself as his dad stepped back, leaving the air to cool between them, Kurt's gaze was fixed on the floor, when he ventured, "Y-you're not mad? It's too late in the semester to get back any of the tuition."

Halfway through his turn toward the door, Burt swung back around long enough to lift Kurt's chin, and even though he knew his face had to be shell shocked and drawn, managed to pull up one corner of his mouth and one eyebrow for sincerity. "Kurt, I have never been more proud of anyone in my whole life."

"Burt?" They both spun, wiping the blur from their eyes as Carole appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Get dressed, honey. We're heading over to the Andersons' just as soon as I get rid of Santana."

"All of us?"

Burt pecked her on the cheek. "All of us."

"Thank God."

-#-

Blaine never heard the alarm go off, the ringing in his ears already loud enough to drown out everything else.

Drown. Drowning. Drowned.

He wondered if that only applied to being underwater as he fought against the pressure, building with every sob and collapsing his chest like the hull of a submarine. He was drowning, still on dry land and surrounded by air, but none of it was in his lungs. As his vision tunneled, the black collapsing around him and drawing his entire body into a ball in the wake of it, he lunged for the valve on the oxygen tank, wound up on the floor instead.

That's where he was, clawing into the plush rug Kurt had put down beside his bed, when the lights flickered on around him, the black in his peripheral vision brightening to grey but still closing in.

"Blaine, honey. Oh my God!" Then, his mother was there, his mama. Even without air, her scent tickled through his soft palate and into his brain, safety and comfort. He couldn't see anymore, not really, a strand of dark hair, the curl of a lip, the pad of a thumb as it soothed over his cheekbone and he pressed against it. Lips against the palm of her hand, he could feel the words he hadn't realized he was speaking.

"'appening, happening. It's happening, happening. 's happening."

An arm around his back, lifting, and a palm flat against his chest, stubbled jaw against his ear, and a voice through the fog, "No. N-no, no, no, it's not. Breathe, Blaine. Just breathe."

He was trying. He was trying. Didn't they get that? He was trying, but he wasn't getting any air. This was it. It was happening. This was what it felt like to die, and he was. NOT. r-r-READY. But the more he fought it, the more he railed against it, tooth and nail, the harder it tried to claim him. And he wanted to scream, wanted to cry out, but all of that required oxygen, nitrogen, CO2, _anything_ to be in his lungs where there was nothing, and the nothing wanted out instead of doing what nothing was _supposed_ to do and leaving a vacuum that sucked everything in. Just once. Just once couldn't everything work the way it was supposed to.

Something warm, a soft pressure, a kiss behind his ear, and his back arched, straining into the touch, because everywhere else was cold, cold, cold, and he wanted to be warm.

"...scared, Mama. Mama. I'm. So. Scared. MAMA!"

"I'm here, baby. I'm here."

And in his other ear, "...panic attack. Just a panic attack, Blaine. Listen. Breathe. You are not dying, not now."

Head tossed side to side, his temple met bone, and his mother gasped. He didn't believe them. He was dying. He was dying, and they were just going to argue with him until it was too late.

The world tilted, and the arm around his back tipped him forward, his mother's scent thicker as his forehead found the crook of her neck and shoulder, everything rocking back and forth. One second swirled into the next minute, felt like hours before the cold gap at his back filled in again, warm and tight.

"This will help you relax, Son. Just go with it, and try to breathe."

A sharp stab into his upper arm, and the fight left his body, one long exhale that curled upward from his toes and seeped out of him like blood.

He went with it.

-TBC

 **AN:** At this point, I'm thinking two more chapters. At this point, all the balls are in the air, almost, so I'd invite anyone who has a speculation they've been itching to share to go ahead and share it. Also, if there's something you're afraid I'll forget to address, let me know. I'd hate to leave anyone disappointed after such a long journey together. As always, I cherish every one of your reviews.


	26. Learning to Breathe

AN: So, here it is, the penultimate chapter of Reverb. I didn't intend for it to take this long, but polar vortexes and winters that never end make this barn manager's life miserable. But to be honest, I got passed over for a position at my job in favor of someone with half my seniority and experience, and that completely shattered my confidence and self worth for awhile. I'd be lying if I said pictures from Darren's wedding didn't go a long way for pulling me out of that rut. Anyway, I would never leave this unfinished. There will be one more chapter after this. Take a peek at the warnings at the beginning of the story and keep in mind where we're at in the time line. That should be fair warning for what's coming. Other than that, I feel I should warn that some of this is flat out schmoopy cheese. It's also the longest chapter ever at 21,000 words. So, hopefully you'll forgive me for making you wait.

AN: Formatting in this chapter: Anything in italics is happening at the periphery of Blaine's mind, either while he's half/mostly asleep, feverish, or remembering something that happened. It all happens, but not necessarily in the order it shows up in the story. I hope that makes sense.

-#-

The coffee had gone cold, the conversation stuttered to a halt. It shouldn't have been possible for six grown people to loiter in the same space, each casting furtive glances across the kitchen island through the hallway at the closed sitting room door, without bursting the personal bubbles around one of the other five, but they pulled it off, the shared worry between them enough to buffer the individual pangs of guilt and fear. Kurt didn't know how the cacophony in his head, noise he could see clearly reflected in the eyes of everyone around him, masqueraded so successfully as deafening silence, as though the mental anguish vibrated on a frequency not even dogs could hear. Most disturbing to Kurt, was Cooper, hunched at the island counter on the bar stool beside Kurt's, leaning against elbows splayed so far apart that his forehead practically rested atop his coffee cup. He seemed to be taking up as much room as possible with his body to make up for the void where his usually over the top enthusiasm and manufactured charisma usually resided.

Kurt supposed being wrenched from a sound sleep to screams only sedation could quiet would do that to a guy.

He felt for Pam. Usually so put together, she looked a mess, eyes red and cheeks peppered with the flakes of yesterday's mascara that escaped her evening facial, flushed skin pulled tight between dark shadows, and her silk robe wrinkled, stained across the front where he could too clearly imagine Blaine's fingers clinging as he fought through the panic. Kurt couldn't look at her for more than a few seconds at a time, her subconscious curl into the front of Thomas' t-shirt so far removed from her usual open and almost playful persona was enough to convince him that his presence there was more of an intrusion than a comfort, despite her congenial offerings of coffee and bagels.

They all looked up, Burt's hand clapping soundly atop Kurt's shoulder from behind him, as the garbled voices from behind the sitting room door separated themselves, one distinctly female and much closer to the door than Blaine's from the bed across the room. When she emerged, Dr. Zalobny paused, taking in the rapt gazes of her audience before decisively closing the door behind her. Kurt only caught a glimpse of Blaine, the head of his bed raised and his gaze fixed out the window, before the latch clicked shut once more and obscured him from view. The psychiatrist straightened her clothing, a neat grey pantsuit with silvery pink piping and mother-of-pearl buttons that complemented her earrings- dressed as though she wasn't making an emergency house call at barely past dawn in the morning- before nodding an acknowledgment to the group. Before she'd even crossed the hall, Pam had a cup of coffee warmed for her, which she gladly accepted, taking a sip and smiling a thanks while refusing the chair pulled out for her at the dining table, choosing instead to set her coffee down on the short side of the island and stand behind it, a hand on each corner like it was a podium and she a key note speaker.

Kurt didn't notice how tightly coiled he'd become in anticipation until his father's thumb pressed into a knot at the junction of neck and shoulder and massaged it loose with a squeeze of reassurance. Without thinking about it, Kurt reached across his chest and placed his own hand atop his dad's.

Having taken care of the trivial introductions and niceties before she saw Blaine, Dr. Zalobny elected to just dive into the explanation she was there to give.

"Officially, and I'll be putting this in my report to the transplant review board," she explained, "Blaine's condition has destabilized because he went almost four days without his medications as a result of being in a coma and unable to take anything by mouth. Unfortunately, there are no I.V. or I.M. formulations of most of his prescriptions, so there was no way to avoid the lapse." She gave a slight shrug as if to say she knew it was unfair that there was no one to blame. "Unfortunately, that's one of the bridges we've yet to successfully build between mental health practitioners and the rest of the medical community. Someone should have at least informed you that he wasn't receiving his medication and that there could be potential side effects from stopping and restarting them abruptly. The panic attack he had this morning was definitely one of those side effects." She paused, a hand on her coffee cup and one finger tapping the rim. "Luckily, it's not a new one; he reported panic attacks when we first started him on antidepressants three years ago, so it's not so much a deterioration in his condition as it is a recurrence of something we know we can alleviate. Since he didn't go off the meds voluntarily and has otherwise been taking them as prescribed, it's not something that should factor against him with the review board."

The room breathed a collective sigh of relief, but Dr. Zalobny didn't seem receptive to the idea that this was supposed to be good news. Just the facts, apparently, and open for interpretation. She took another sip of her coffee before continuing.

"That being said, we have a very scared and confused young man on our hands. Certainly being off his meds has exacerbated things, but in talking with him, I find that Blaine has some understandable emotional trauma from the rapid deterioration of his physical condition and the circumstances surrounding that as well as some legitimate concerns about the potential..." she paused as if searching for the best word to broach a sensitive topic, "outcome of that condition."

"He thinks he's dying," Kurt offered, his voice a small echo of what it'd been that morning when he first revealed his concern to his father and then to the Andersons, having arrived on their doorstep in a panic that mirrored their own.

"And he is," she stated flatly. Her fingers strummed around her coffee cup as she acknowledged the stricken looks on their faces with a sympathetic nod. "I'm not saying there isn't hope or that you shouldn't hold out that hope, just that the reality of the situation dictates that, without significant intervention, he will die, and he knows that. While we're all on board to get him that intervention, there's no guarantee it will come through. He needs to be able to acknowlegdge that he might not come out the other side of this without feeling like he's letting everyone down, and he needs to know you will all be okay, that, whatever the outcome, you are grateful for every minute you have with him, because right now, he definitely thinks you'd all be better off without him." Her mouth set into a straight, tight line as Pam stifled a sob against her husband's chest. "That is cause for concern. We know from his history how quickly he can jump from just a random ideation to posing a legitimate danger to himself. His illness being what it is, he doesn't really need intent to harm himself, just an opportunity and a momentary lapse in judgment that can easily manifest in his current state."

"He has plenty of friends. Family," Burt interjected. "We won't leave him alone until he's through this. Not for a minute."

Her smile was barely a twitch of her lower lip accompanied by a nearly silent rush of air through her nose. "That's probably advisable, and hopefully it won't take long for him to re-stabilize now that he's back on his medication, but there are still some very necessary conversations that need to happen, sooner rather than later."

"Regarding?" Thomas asked, massaging his wife's shoulder as she pressed into his chest.

"Regarding what his wishes are. If the board decides he's not a candidate for a transplant or a heart doesn't become available, how long is he willing to go on like this," she explained with a gesture toward the closed sitting room doors, "all of you rearranging your lives for him the way you are. How long he can be happy with this version of his life." She held up a hand as if sensing a protest building. "And," she added with emphasis, "how he feels knowing that someone else has to die for him to live. Causality aside, that's not something that everyone can just accept, especially someone with Blaine's propensity for self-deprecation and insecurity. It could be hard for him to accept that he deserves to be saved if it means someone else can't be."

"Did he actually say that?" Cooper queried, his voice cracking with emotion that didn't require any shouting or pointing to convey.

"Not directly, no, there's definitely some confusion that he could use some help working through. If you feel you can't have these conversation with him, I can recommend a good Grief Counselor, either for yourselves or Blaine, or both." Noting the skeptical twist to Cooper's expression, she added. "It's both possible and necessary to grieve for many things. It's not only about someone's passing. Whether there's a happy ending to this story or not, you've all lost something from this experience. Sometimes it's necessary to deal with those losses in order to gain some perspective on how much we still have."

The room went silent, all the noise once again swallowed down into the abyss of internal anguish. Dr. Zalobny drummed her fingers around her now empty cup, eyes dropped in thought.

"Thank you, Doctor." Carole, always the professional. "We'll take all of this under advisement."

"Just one more thing," the doctor said, reaching inside her jacket. She pulled out a card. "Kurt?" she asked.

Kurt looked up, his heart suddenly jumping outside of his ribcage. "Yes?"

She slid a business card across the counter to him. "I want you to give me a call when you're ready. I think we should talk."

"About?" It was a question, but he dropped his eyes, jerking his hands to his sides when he realized he was still winding the watch he was no longer wearing.

She shrugged, eyebrows raised to show she'd noticed his tic. "Mostly about why I came here this morning to talk to Blaine about Blaine and yet spent a good percentage of my time talking to Blaine about you."

Before Kurt could draw back, a surge of defensiveness suddenly yanking any slack out of his posture, she folded her hand over the one he still clasped her business card in.

"He's really worried about you, Kurt." Then, drawing back to her original position. "Or we can just talk about musicals. I've never met a legitimate countertenor. Apparently your rendition of 'Being Alive' would bring me to tears."

Kurt's held breath came out in a burning whoosh, the fire of a dragon he had yet to slay, and all he could do was nod briskly, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. "O-okay," he assented, and was surprised as his center of gravity lurched backward, his father pulling him in.

"Good," Burt whispered. "That's really good. I'm glad."

"Anytime," the doctor smiled, jutting her chin toward the card in Kurt's hand. "That emergency number is my private cell. You're welcome to use it. I always answer."

"Thank you," Kurt sniffed.

She nodded her head back over her shoulder. "Now, I think someone ought to go and talk to Blaine before he gets too worked up wondering what we're saying about him out here."

They chuckled mirthlessly in response, knowing full well that's exactly what Blaine was doing in there. "I'll make him breakfast," Pam said, glad for a task at hand on which to focus as Thomas showed the doctor out.

"Why don't you go ahead and get dressed," Carole offered. "I make a killer oatmeal."

"And I boil eggs like a pro," Burt added. He caught Kurt's eyes as they broke up their hug and darted his own toward the sitting room. "Remember. Door open." Though Kurt noted his eyes lacked the suggestive twinkle he usually employed when reminding them of his totally useless and ineffectual open door policy, Kurt appreciated the attempt at levity.

Laughter through tears used to be his favorite emotion. These days, it was just how they lived.

-#-

Blaine was angry. Any actor worth his salt would be. Kurt knew if he was the one giving the performance of his life and someone, maybe Blaine, called him on it, let on in no uncertain terms that they saw right through it, he'd be angry, too. For the principle of it, he'd be angry, or he would've been if he hadn't paid almost $60,000 for the privilege of having insults hurled at him by industry professionals in the name of education and thickening his skin. But Blaine was never one to hold a grudge, at least where there was no actual harm to himself or someone he cared about. Not for pride or even disappointment, really. Unless he was the one at fault, Blaine was quick to let things go, to let people in, whether they deserved it or not.

So, Kurt didn't begrudge him the cold shoulder he'd been getting for the last ten minutes. The view out that window was pretty extraordinary, after all.

"We should cut some tulips and daffodils. We could put an arrangement on the dining room table so you could enjoy them outside and inside. Some hyacinths for texture, before they fade out." He caught himself straightening the hem of the duvet where it was folded back across the foot of the bed, smoothing and adjusting the crease so that it laid perfectly flat and matched up the pattern. He'd set his chair up at that end so neither of them would have to strain their necks to talk. Of course, it didn't really help while they were both turned away from each other, Blaine gazing out the window and Kurt studying the photographs that had migrated from the piano top to the walls. He wondered how he hadn't noticed that the pictures Blaine used to keep on his nightstand, like the ones from their respective Junior proms and of them kissing the trophy the day they won Nationals, had made it to the wall as well. He supposed he had Pam to thank for that.

"Blaine, I'm sorry I didn't go back to school like you wanted me to. I-I just couldn't." His jaw tightened before his tongue was completely paralyzed, and his hands had begun to undo the perfect pleat in the bedspread so that he'd be able to straighten it all over again when Blaine's arm stretched out across the sheet, his hand closing around Kurt's, solid and comforting and just tight enough to stop him fidgeting on his own. He turned his palm, opened it to Blaine's so that the flats nested together, warm and a little sweaty, fingertips at pulse points, a proof of life and forgiveness so certain it didn't need words. "I couldn't."

"How long?" Blaine asked, his gaze still fixed outside.

"How long?"

"How long until you have to go back?"

"I-I'm not." It was almost a whisper, a secret he might only have heard from someone else and wasn't allowed to share. "I'm withdrawn for the rest of the semester, but I haven't lost my spot. Since I didn't fail out, I can go back any time in the next year without re-applying."

He could tell the news devastated Blaine by the way his throat worked up and down even before the lone tear spilled over his cheek and was brushed away by the pad of his thumb.

"Blaine... don't. It's okay, really. I want to be here. I need to be here." Kurt's attempt at reassurance fell flat, Blaine's next breath a stutter that shook his whole chest.

"I ruined everything." Blaine closed his eyes as though to exorcise the ghost of his own reflection in the window glass or teleport himself to the other side where everything was new and untarnished, winter just a memory instead of a looming threat. Kurt knew that look too well.

"No. Blaine... honey, look at me." He tightened his grip around Blaine's wrist and bumped their hands together against the rise of his thigh beneath the bedsheet. "Don't do that. You didn't ruin anything. If-if I had gone back to school, I know I would've been a mess. I wouldn't have been able to concentrate on anything. I'd have spent all my time worrying and waiting for the phone to ring, and I would've failed out of all of my classes. That would've ruined everything." Blaine didn't open his eyes, but he did sniffle, this breath more steady than the ones preceding it. "A-and if I'm honest, I wasn't doing all that great in a couple of those courses, anyway. I'd kind of like a second shot at them when I'm in a different frame of mind."

This sniffle was dryer than the last, and when Blaine's eyes did open, whatever tears he'd been fighting had been swallowed. "Really?"

Sandwiching Blaine's hand between both of his, Kurt squeezed for emphasis. "Yes, really. You know I already wasn't sleeping well, even before... _this_ happened, and I was about one lecture away from telling my Punctuation for Playwrights instructor to shove his parentheticals up his semicolon. There's something so, so wrong about a sixty-year-old man who explains the oxford comma using Outkast lyrics."

"Don't wanna meet your mama?" Blaine ventured, raising his eyebrows.

"Just want my oxford comma," Kurt returned.

"Oh! Oh!" They said the last together, and Kurt couldn't resist a flourish of jazz hands, leaning back in his chair as he did so, suddenly freer, like they'd been reaching for each other through a half-closed manhole cover, and he'd finally been pulled up.

"He didn't," Blaine ribbed.

"He definitely did," Kurt asserted. He took a beat to meet Blaine's eyes, drinking in the air that cleared between them. "Honestly, though, Blaine, I care about that stuff. I do. I refuse to do anything halfway, you know that, but right now..." His eyes closed as if to ward off some looming threat with a slight but determined shake of his head. "With everything else that's going on, it was starting to feel like torture. My perspective shifted, my priorities... and in the grand scheme of things, none of it mattered. It's still important, but it's not going anywhere..."

"And I am." Not a question.

Kurt didn't nod agreement but acknowledged with a tight, "Maybe." He shook off the wave of dread that draped itself over his shoulders and rubbed his palms over his thighs. "I mean, I hope not, but... Anyway, I just know if I'd gone back, I'd have ended up resenting every minute. I want to devour my education, not feel like I'm being force fed. I need to know you're okay before I can do that. I need to be here to make sure you're okay, for myself."

"And if I'm not?"

Kurt bit back his automatic response, remembering Dr. Zalobny's earlier admonishment about not addressing the very plausible possibility that Blaine wouldn't bounce back from this. "Then we'll all need some time to process. Carmen Tibideaux and the Oxford comma be damned."

He hadn't realized his eyes had slipped shut again, blind to the possibility, until he heard Blaine take in a quaking breath, the mattress at his elbow dipping, and when he opened them, there was Blaine, swollen eyes inches from his face, and then closer, his lips on Kurt's, palms cupped against his jaw, and alive, so alive. When he pulled back again, a choke in his throat, only to press his stubbled cheek to Kurt's, Blaine's breath stuttered hot against his ear. "I'm so scared, Kurt."

He nearly pullled Blaine off the bed, latching on with such ferocity. "I know," Kurt whispered. "We all are. Just..." his fingers fisted in Blaine's hair drawing him tighter than should have been possible, trading electrons like their souls could mold together. "Just don't give up, okay? Keep fighting."

Blaine didn't answer, just nodded as hot tears skirted the lobe of Kurt's ear before dripping onto his shirt collar.

Finally, Kurt sat back, thumbs soothing over the anguish lines around Blaine's mouth and eyes before straightening the cannula that had unlooped itself from over his ear. "You should eat something. Breakfast in bed?"

Blaine laughed, a sloppy, messy utterance that cleared his throat and sinuses in one burst. "It's past lunchtime."

Kurt echoed him, heart clenching and leaping simultaneously, and he hadn't realized he was crying, too, until his head throbbed behind his eye sockets. "So, you'd prefer tea on the veranda?"

"Anything, anywhere, as long as you're there."

"Always."

"I'm so glad you didn't go."

-#-

Anything turned out to be poached eggs and toast with sliced avocado and tomato. Anywhere turned out to be the flokati rug on the floor beside the bed, propped up with the bean bag chairs from Cooper's old dorm room that they'd rescued from the back of his closet. Despite only moving from the bed to the floor, the whole thing turned out to be exhausting and ended with a nap.

One long last exhale short of being sound asleep, Blaine sensed footsteps crossing the hardwood and deadening in the plush rug before stopping.

 _"The floor? Kurt, you couldn't have helped him to bed?" Carole was taking her nurse duties a little too seriously for Blaine's liking, but he was okay with letting her fuss if that's what she needed to do. That didn't mean he was moving from his comfy little nest on the floor._

 _He kept his eyes shut as Kurt retorted, "Hey, at least I got him to eat first. How was I supposed to know he'd roll over and pass out right after? I went to the bathroom, came back, and there he was. I think it's kind of adorable."_

 _"Well, he can't stay there. It's bad for the circulation, and he'll catch a chill."_

 _"I'm on it." Kurt's hand curled around the back of Blaine's neck, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. "Blaine, baby? Wake up. You need to get in bed."_

Blaine shifted slightly and mumbled, "'m not sleepin'," before snuffling into Kurt's hand, "'m also not gettin' up. Like it here." He pulled himself into a ball and noted with a groan how heavy his head had become, a dull thud radiating up from the base of his skull. He couldn't have moved right then if he tried.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Kurt chuckled, and Blaine felt lips against his cheek before a blanket settled over him. Barely cracking his eyes, Blaine snagged Kurt's hand before he could stand up and dragged him down. "You, too." Blaine hadn't missed the dark cirlcles under his eyes, knew he probably hadn't slept much the night before either. Kurt only resisted for a second before dropping in behind him and pulling the duvet off the bed atop them both.

Carole chuckled,"Have a nice nap, boys," then padded back out of the room.

-#-

Kurt woke to Carole stepping around him as she changed the bedsheets, their little nest on the rug dismantled, except for the part he was still lying in, and his head muzzy. He hadn't slept that well in weeks. It wasn't until his fingers caterpillared their way against the nap of the rug all the way to the end of his reach that he jerked fully awake, rising up onto one elbow fast enough to burn his forearm on the carpet.

As if reading his mind, Carole volunteered, "He's in the shower," as she changed out one of the pillowcases. "You looked like you could use some more sleep, so we didn't wake you."

Scrubbing a hand over his forehead, Kurt could feel that his hair had started to fall, strands tickling over eyebrows, and pushed it back into place as he righted himself to a sit and tried not to groan at the wrinkles in his linen shirt. "Does he need help?"

Carole frowned. "His dad's in there with him."

Kurt sat for a minute with a hand on the back of his neck, knees pressed against his chest, still blinking away the last sluggishness of sleep, fully aware that he needed to get up but at a complete loss as to what he needed to do once he did. He felt like he'd been going nonstop since Rachel came back to the loft and told them to switch on the television, driving between the hotel and the hospital, sitting vigilant at Blaine's bedside, and trading assignments and emails back and forth to NYADA. Now that school had been squared away for the time being and Blaine was settled at home, the burden of waiting seemed infinitely heavier, the urgency bled out and them weak and drained in its wake.

"Your dad's gone to the garage, and Pam's running some errands- grocery store and pharmacy, that sort of thing. We were thinking tacos for dinner if you want to start on the fixings. But give yourself a chance to wake up first. There's a fresh pot of coffee brewing." Carole raised the head of the bed up after finishing the linens and patted Kurt on the shoulder as she picked up the duvet from atop his stockinged feet. "No rush, though, dear. It's been a rough week."

"Mmm," he agreed with a slight nod of his chin, not really moving to get up or even change position just yet. "Carole, do you think I need to see the psychiatrist?" He knew things were difficult at the moment, but they were difficult for everyone. Was he really handling it that poorly?

Carole was cleaning the breathing tube and checking the gauge on the oxygen tank, her quiet efficient rhythm never faltering as she answered, "If you're asking whether Blaine's the only one that's been worried about you lately, then the answer is no. Your dad and I were up late last night worrying about you going back to school. He was actually going to try to talk you out of it, but you beat him to the punchline on that." She must have noticed the tension tightening across the back of his neck and shoulders as he imagined them lying awake talking about him half the night, because she stopped what she was doing and sat down beside him, a hand soothing over his back as she leaned against him. "We're not saying that you're sick or that you're not doing an amazing job of being there for Blaine, just that you might need some help coping with everything that's happening. You're so focused on Blaine that you might be forgetting to look after yourself a little. It can't hurt to talk to someone about how to find a balance."

Kurt wasn't aware how raw the last few days had left him until he went to take a deep breath and found his sinuses clogged with unshed tears. He leaned back against her like he was suddenly aware of the puppet strings holding him up but wasn't quite ready to let go of the illusion of control. "I'm just so scared," he confessed.

"I know, honey. We all are, but we can't let the fear eat us alive or rob us of the moment we're in. There is a lot of joy to be had in this time when we're all together, regardless of why we're here. Sometimes we just need a little help to see it."

She patted his knee. "Now why don't you go get that cup of coffee."

"Thank you, Carole."

"You're welcome, sweetie."

-#-

He was half finished with his coffee and rifling through the refrigerator, looking for those taco fixings, when the doorbell rang. Knowing he was closest, he slid the crisper shut and dropped his onions, lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese onto the counter as he called out, "I'll get it." He wiped his hands on a dishtowel before answering the door.

He wasn't sure who he was expecting at that time of the afternoon, but it was definitely not two of Dalton Academy's finest. "Trent," he greeted, warmly. "Sebastian." He managed not to scowl too harshly, though the second name did leave a foul aftertaste in his mouth. "Excuse me while I put out some moth balls. We seem to have a weasel infestation."

"Hey, Kurt," Trent grinned.

"Kurt," Sebastian said with a nod, his voice strangely void of its usual venom. "We were hoping to see Blaine."

"Don't you have school?"

"Dalton's on Spring Break this week," Trent supplied.

"Well, that would explain the lack of uniforms, I guess." Kurt stepped aside and motioned them into the foyer. "Blaine's in the shower. I was just taking care of some things in the kitchen. I suppose you can sit at the counter if you don't mind waiting. There's coffee, if you'd like a cup?"

They both declined and pulled up stools at the kitchen island while Kurt pulled out a cutting board and started rinsing the tomatoes.

"So, um," Trent stammered, "I don't know if you were planning to stay for Regionals, but we just found out today that they're going to be held at Dalton. If you're still in town, you can come and hang out backstage with the Warblers. It will be like a mini reunion."

Kurt sliced the first tomato down the middle. "Regionals are next week, and they're just announcing the venue now? That's kind of short notice, isn't it?"

"Actually, it was supposed to be in Indianapolis, but there's some concern about tornadoes or something, so it defaulted to McKinley," Sebastian explained. "But there was some reluctance to host such a big event while they're still rebounding from the whole shooting scare. The Warblers took a vote and volunteered to host as a good will gesture."

"What," Kurt mused, "they've fallen so far out of grace that they need to hock overpriced concessions to support themselves?"

"If you must know, we did it for Blaine," Sebastian rebutted. "We heard he wasn't able to perform and thought if we hosted it, then maybe he'd at least be able to come and watch."

"And we were planning to donate all proceeds from concession sales to the American Heart Association," Trent added. "We just wanted to ask Blaine if he was okay with that. We wouldn't want to embarrass him or anything."

Kurt stopped slicing the tomato and surveyed his work with a sigh. The slices were uneven, half of them with the seeds and most of the fruit squashed out onto the cutting board, because his knife was just that little bit too dull. The red skin was wrinkled in places, the meat of the fruit raw and dripping the way the inside of his lip would be if he didn't curb the urge to start over again... maybe with a sharper knife or a firmer tomato.

"Well, that's very... humanitarian of you," he granted, releasing his lip from between his teeth. He diced up everything into smaller, more erratically sized pieces, fighting to keep his mind numb to the shoddiness of his haniwork, before scraping the whole pile into a Ziploc container to be served up with dinner. "But Blaine's having surgery on Monday morning. There's..." he grabbed the second tomato without looking up, "there's this really great surgeon his dad knows who can keep it as minimally invasive as possible, but he's going to be off his feet for at least a week. He's not going to be able to make it to the competition."

"Man, that sucks." Trent seemed genuinely disappointed. "It's kind of the Warbler's last big hurrah before we all graduate, you know, since our competition season is over. It would've meant the world to have him there."

"Well, I'll be there recording the whole thing for him. If he's feeling up to it, maybe you can Face Time him." Kurt was pretty sure he was about to slice off one of his own fingers. He dropped the knife to the counter with a clang, suddenly overwhelmed by the fact that Blaine needed his dad to help him shower and shave and his friends were planning show choir competitions and concession sales, making donations to charity in his name before they scattered into the wind. They were making plans, and gestures to help them move on, and Blaine was waiting.

"Wait, you don't have to go back to school?" Sebastian queried.

"I withdrew this morning."

"Geez... Kurt, that's... Um... " Trent stammered, dropping his head to his chest as words failed him.

"It's that bad?" Sebastian never was one for beating around the bush. "I mean, there are treatments, right? I'm sure his parents can afford whatever it takes."

"He needs a new heart," Kurt shout-whispered, too aware of all the open doorways and the fact that Blaine was right down the hall. "And if they don't put him on the transplant list, there's no amount of money that's going to buy that."

"Why wouldn't they put him on the list?" Trent's normally sunny expression took on a pinched quality that Kurt could only assume was something between affronted and genuinely concerned.

Kurt scraped the remainder of the tomatoes into the container with the first batch and started to peel away the dried husk from the onion. "There just aren't enough hearts to go around. They consider a lot of different factors before they put someone on the list like whether they'll be able to afford the transplant and the anti-rejection medication they'll have to take for the rest of their lives, and whether there are any other factors that would put the transplanted heart at risk." He stopped one layer short of edible onion and deposited the peelings in the trash. "To be honest someone with a new mental health diagnosis and a history of..." He dropped the lid back on the trash can, re-thinking how much of Blaine's medical history they really needed to know, "... with Blaine's history can be considered unstable and be denied based on that. Plus, there's still the question of why his condition deteriorated so quickly. A diagnosis of ARVC doesn't usually progress to end stage heart failure in less than a year."

Sebastian had straightened on his stool, his expression turned thoughtful as Kurt elaborated. By the time he spoke, his jaw had squared up to rival the set of his shoulders. "You're saying they can deny him the heart he needs based on his mental health status?"

"If they feel he's a danger to himself or that he won't adhere to the prescribed treatment plan, yes," Kurt shrugged. "It doesn't help that he's eighteen and plans to move out of state after graduation when all of his established support system is here in Ohio. And how is a student of Music Theatre and Recorded Music going to afford expensive prescriptions once he ages out of his parents' insurance coverage?"

"So, what _should_ he be doing at eighteen?" The sarcasm dripping in Sebastian's voice made it clear the question was rhetorical.

Kurt raised his eyebrows and hmmphed in silent agreement as he started chopping the onion. "To be honest, once he was diagnosed, it was always likely that he'd need a transplant someday. If it had taken five or even ten more years to get to this stage, his chances of getting on the list would've been so much better. Now, everything is just so uncertain."

"Have they started the approval process, then?" Sebastian pressed. "How does that work exactly?"

"His doctors at Wexner have assessed his condition and all of the available options and determined that a transplant is necessary. That's the first part of the process," Kurt explained, lifting a shoulder to wipe the onion-tears from his eye without missing a beat in his chopping. "They pass that recommendation on to a review board that takes all the other factors into consideration and decides whether he's a candidate or not."

"A-and if he's not?" Trent ventured.

"They can support him fairly long term with a ventricular assist device, which he's getting on Monday, and try again to get on the list once he's able to prove his situation is stable enough, but in the interim he'd have a very limited lifestyle with tight restrictions that would make it difficult, if not impossible to attend college as a full time student." They hadn't even discussed Blaine's plans to move to New York since the shooting, but Kurt felt confident his parents would not let him go in the condition he was in now, with or without the VAD in place.

Before Kurt could speculate further, both Trent and Sebastian were sliding off their stools, looking past Kurt and down the hall. Turning with the knife still in his hand, he was shocked to see Thomas guiding Blaine into the kitchen, the front of his son's white t-shirt speckled with blood as Blaine kept one hand pressed to his jaw.

"Here, sit down." Sebastian offered up his stool, which Thomas sat Blaine upon before heading to the freezer. "What happened?"

Kurt could tell Blaine was surprised to have an audience, noted the exact moment he slipped into performance mode. "My dad was helping me shave. I think he used a chainsaw." Thomas pried Blaine's fingers away from the cut but not before Kurt noted the deep-red tinge under his fingernails and staining his cuticles. The offending cut was no more than a nick really. It didn't seem possible that all of that mess had come from that one blemish, but even though there was a smear of white over it, blood continued to seep up out of the wound.

"Here put this on it," Thomas instructed, pressing a bag of frozen peas over the injury. Blaine looked at him skeptically, water dripping out of his still wet hair, but did as he was told, wincing slightly at the chill. Thomas hovered momentarily before going to the sink to rinse his hands. "I'm just not used to shaving anyone who's not myself," he said in his defense. "The angle was awkward, and Blaine's on anti-clotting medication, so it refuses to stop bleeding. I seem to have misplaced the styptic pencil, so we tried the old deodorant trick, but either there's no aluminum sulfate in that brand or it just wasn't strong enough."

"We should've tried Mom's," Blaine interjected. "It's strong enough for a man, but made for a woman." His grin had the desired effect of releasing the tension in the room, both Trent and Sebastian deflating visibly, but Kurt couldn't see past the way the dark circles under Blaine's eyes deepened a full shade.

"Blaine." Thomas chided his son with a tight-lipped grin of his own. He dried his hands on the towel Kurt offered him before leaning back against the counter. "The cold should shrink the vessels up in a few minutes, though." He acknowledged the extra pairs of eyes in the room with a nod. "Boys? I don't believe we've met."

Blaine, ever the gentleman, moved his eyes between each of the newcomers and his father, trying to keep his head as still as possible while pressing on the cut. "Dad, this is Trent, " a nod, "and Sebastian," another nod. "Trent and Sebastian... my dad."

Thomas offered his hand to each in turn before returning to the counter. "I hope neither of you are squeamish," he said apologetically.

"Trent and I were in the Warblers together at Dalton. You might've missed him in the crowd, but he was here on Christmas Eve. And Sebastian is..."

Kurt sensed Blaine searching for a word to describe Sebastian, but before he could supply his own choice words, Sebastian jumped in.

"Senior Warbler, here as a good will ambassador on behalf of the Council." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of colored envelopes. "The Warblers signed these for Blaine, and we wanted to personally invite him to sit with us while the New Directions perform this weekend at Regionals now that Dalton is sponsoring the event." Turning to Blaine, he added, "I'm sorry to hear you won't be able to attend. The invitation still stands, though. Anytime between now and graduation. We'd all love to have you stop by."

"Once a Warbler, always a Warbler," Blaine chimed.

"That's right," Trent agreed, his round cheeks capping an ear to ear grin. "We're a regular fraternity. Brothers for life." Without missing a beat, "You, too, Kurt."

He must've interpreted Kurt's silence as skepticism. He wouldn't have been wrong. Ever the sunshine of the group, though, Trent persisted. "Really. We still use the video of you and Blaine from Regionals two years ago to recruit new members. Before you, the Warblers hadn't had an actual, in the flesh, countertenor in over twenty years. Who knows when another will come around? You might only have been there for a few months, but you're Warbler history."

Kurt realized as he fought to tone down the scowl in his expression that he really didn't feel like scowling at all, not even standing face to face with Sebastian and their long, sordid history, not the least memorable part of which included actual physical injury inflicted on the love of Kurt's life. While he wasn't buying the over-the-top flattery, he found he really didn't have any resentment chambered to fire back. Life really was too short for bitterness and anger, no matter how justified.

He was about to say something to that effect when he caught a slight waver in his peripheral vision and, without thinking, swooped around the counter just in time to catch Blaine before the stool went out from under him. The bag of peas dropped to the floor with a soggy squelch as Kurt pulled him into his chest, Blaine's head heavy and hot against his shoulder. "No more stools for you, Blaine Warbler," he cooed, shuffling Blaine over to the dining table instead, where his feet actually reached the floor and held him upright with a hand to the chest while he waited for his eyes to stop trying to roll back into his head and focus. "Just take it easy, okay?"

Thomas was beside him instantaneously. "Keep your head down for a minute, Son," he soothed. "Just a little drop in blood pressure. The stool probably cut off circulation in your legs a little, and I should've held the ice pack for you. I really think you've been off the oxygen too long, as well. Let me bring that out for you while you just sit and give it a few minutes to stabilize. Then we'll take you back to your room."

Blaine nodded almost imperceptibly under Kurt's ministrations, and despite the cold sweat trickling down his temples and onto the tabletop, the otherwise pasty pallor of his complexion had burned away at the tops of his cheekbones, and his eyes, when he opened them were glassier than Kurt remembered them being.

But one thing at a time.

He continued to soothe a thumb over Blaine's newly-shaven skin, the rest of his fingers smoothing back the dripping wet curls at his temple. "Oh, honey, we need to get you a haircut. If you want, I can give you a trim after dinner tonight." Blaine shut his eyes but huffed a soundless laugh that clouded polished wood beneath his nose, head hung low and heavy.

Blaine slowly drew his hand to cover Kurt's and pulled it down to his lips. "My hero," he cooed breathlessly.

And, even though it was beyond disturbing how comfortable they seemed to have gotten in this limbo between life and death where time never really passed but just rippled between possibilities like Schrodinger's cat and the only way to avoid cataclysm was to never open the box, Kurt chuckled and quipped, "Eat your heart out, Edward Tricomi."

"Just don't cut my ear. I'll need a transfusion if I lose any more blood today."

"And with that," Thomas interrupted, returning with the oxygen canister in tow, "I think we need to take Rapunzel, here, back to his tower before he turns into Sleeping Beauty."

"Aaaand," Sebastian interjected, "since I am fresh out of Disney or Tim Burton references, I think Trent and I will be heading out. Enjoy your dinner, everyone. Blaine... and Kurt," he nodded only slightly begrudgingly toward the latter, "the invitation stands for both of you."

"Once a Warbler, always a Warbler," Trent reprised.

By then, Blaine was sitting up again, this time with his back to the chair and Kurt and his dad flanking him, just in case. With typical Blaine charm, he dropped his chin to the side and grinned at his guests while motioning them each in for a hug before they could leave. "Sorry I wasn't a better host, you guys. I really appreciate you coming over." He pointed at them decisively, a habit he was starting to pick up from having Cooper around so much. "And I am definitely going to take you up on that."

"Before graduation?" Trent clarified.

"Before graduation," he agreed, eyes downcast even though his smile was genuine.

As soon as Trent and Sebastian left, Blaine let go of the pretense. He didn't even refuse the help, tilting his chin up to make it easier to hook the cannula around his ears and leaning heavily against Kurt all the way across the hall before curling onto his side, gaze fixed out the window until his eyes slipped shut.

Kurt stayed with him until his breathing evened out then excused himself to the deck where the cool spring air gave him the clarity he needed to retrieve the psychiatrist's card from his rear pocket and dial the number.

While he secretly hoped for the out of an answering service, she hadn't lied about always answering the emergency number. The fact that he considered it an emergency at all had him sliding down the side of the house, fingers tight in his own hair as they talked.

By the time he returned to his chopping, Pamela had already started browning the meat on the stovetop behind him. When she slid up and wrapped her arms around him until he dropped his head onto her shoulder, he didn't bother trying to blame the onions for his tears.

-#-

 _Blaine was tired to his bones. Tired of pain and fear, everything always hurting, and nothing ever really making sense or lending itself to hope or clarity. He felt like his entire existence was that moment between waking and sleeping. It was never a restful sleep, and waking was just as exhausting, and he really didn't care anymore which direction it went so long as he could get... somewhere._

 _The last thing he clearly remembered was Kurt._

 _Kurt was also the first thing._

 _And while there was probably something a little blasphemous in looking at things from that perspective, Blaine didn't really care. He would stop making Kurt the most important person in his life when he had more life left to screw up. It was hard to imagine the long term consequences of anything, unhealthy or not, when the farthest ahead he could imagine was the synaptic leap from one train of thought to the next._

 _"Marry me." It wasn't a question. It was an answer. Kurt was the answer and the one thing Blaine needed to make this moment in time the one he could stay in for eternity with no regrets. The North Star beckoned through the dark and the fog, the path a line of stepping stone memories, those they'd made already and the ones they'd yet to make, firsts and lasts woven into the fabric of space and time, one singularity where there had been two bodies, no distance and no destination, just them._

 _Kurt's lips found his, a biological imperative of sorts, that allowed lovers to find each other in the dark. "Ask me again when you're back on your meds for more than a couple of days." Another peck. "And when you're not dizzy and feverish."_

 _"Okay." Blaine let himself be lulled back to sleep._

-#-

 _I'm worried about the fever. It isn't high, and he's resting comfortably, but with his history, and the surgery coming up..._

 _His body temperature's going to fluctuate for awhile after the hypothermia, and he's been pretty stressed. Give it a couple days. Unless it spikes, it'll probably even out with rest. Besides, with all of us playing mother hens, it's no wonder this egg is little over-cooked._

 _I hope you're right._

 _For what it's worth, I'm worried, too._

-#-

"Where's Kurt?" Blaine didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but the shadows in the room had switched orientations completely, now climbling the far wall the way they did just before the sun slipped behind the privacy fence when he'd been squinting into the morning rays when he got too tired to keep his eyes open.

"What am I? Chopped liver?" Cooper moped. "C'mon, Squeak, here I am donating my valuable time..."

"You're a barely employed actor whose commercial is on hiatus." Blaine blinked, surprised at how much energy it took just to keep up the pretense of brotherly banter. The next line took some considerable swimming before it reached the surface. "And I'm too old for a babysitter."

Cooper grabbed his chest in true melodramatic fashion, his mouth open on a quip that ended up re-swallowed, Cooper eerily silent except for the scrape of his fingernails against the t.v. tray on his lap as he gathered up an unfinished game of Solitaire. He nodded and re-packed the deck of cards. "Well, then it's a good thing for you I'm available to play nurse maid, otherwise your boy toy would never have been able to keep his appointment with Dr. Zalobny. He's barely been out of spitting distance since you came home." He poured a cup of water out of the pitcher on the bedside table and shook a couple of Tylenol into his palm. "To be honest, I was starting to get a little jealous. Why should he get all the fun of wiping the sweat off your brow and watching you drool into your pillow?" He offered Blaine the pills. "Carole said you're due another dose for your fever. Do I have to make airplane noises?"

Blaine swallowed the pills without a protest and chased them with a sip of the water.

After several seconds of semi-awkward silence where Blaine suspected Cooper was expecting him to ask for assistance getting to the bathroom, Blaine sank into is pillow, chasing the cool trail of the water down his throat and the sparks of clarity it kicked up in its wake like unroosted lightning bugs. One of those sparks ignited around what he thought was a memory but might have been a dream. The way it made his heart flip in his chest, he couldn't help but hope for the former rather than the later, because the idea... well, maybe he'd been off his meds too long and he couldn't really trust his emotions... but he didn't think he could handle the disappointment of waking up from that particular dream. "Coop, did Kurt say anything... strange to you before he left?"

"Strange is a relative term, Blainers. You're gonna have to be more articulate if you want to make it in this business."

"I mean a-about me?"

Cooper's eyes squinted, head tilting as he scrutinized Blaine so closely a fresh blush rose on his cheeks that he was sure wasn't an artifact of the fever. "Why do you ask? Or do I not want to know?"

Blaine squinted, eyes working back and forth in their sockets as he checked both sides of his brain in a fever baked attempt to distinguish fact from fantasy. "Because I think I might have proposed."

Cooper sat back, man sprawling in the chair as he massaged his palms over his thighs, eyebrows peaked.

"Coop? Are you okay?"

"That depends," Cooper finally granted.

"On what?"

"Well, what did he say?"

-#-

 _Blaine, baby, I know I didn't really take you seriously the other day when you... well, you know, when you asked me what you did. Heck, I'm not even sure if you were being serious or if it was just the fever talking over a momentary lapse of mental clarity. Maybe you weren't serious, and maybe I wouldn't have known what to say if you were, but I've been thinking about it. A lot. I know now. Just wake up, okay? Wake up and ask me again._

 _Baby?_

-#-

 _Blaine was convinced he must be awake this time. His dreams rarely hurt as much. Besides the light stabbing him in the eye that only added to the throb in his head, his throat felt tight and sluggish like every swallow had the potential of ending in a slow, choking death, and his joints ached like the fever had burned out every scrap of cartilage. The long bones in his legs felt like the flesh was being gnawed off by rats; he'd had shin splints that felt soothing in comparison._

 _And beneath all that, unfinished business. Something he was supposed to say. Something he was supposed to do. And not only coudn't he finish it, he didn't even know what it was._

 _For some reason, the nasal cannula tube grated over his cheekbone like it was coated in sandpaper and molten horseshoe nails. He clawed at it, his efforts stifled by the hands around his wrists._

 _"Blaine, stop. You need that. Blaine. You'll hurt yourself."_

 _"103.2, and he just had a dose of Tylenol an hour ago."_

 _"You get him dressed. I'll bring the car around. We need to take him in."_

 _So much fussing. Everyone fussing over him was making him dizzy. Or maybe that was the fever. Or the heart failure. Whatever. It was distracting. Confusing. Frustrating. Voices filtered in out of sync with lips and overlapping so he really wasn't sure who was saying what, and in stead of slowing down so he could get his bearings on exactly what was going on around him, they seemed to be ramping up their energy levels and pulling away from his lagging, sluggish mind._

 _Kurt was the only one that seemed to understand. While his dad kept batting his hand away from the infernal oxygen tubing, and Carole kept jamming that thermometer in his ear, the two of them acting like this was a scene out of ER, Kurt held his hand, wedged in the two foot gap between the bed and the window so he could stay out of the way with one hip propped on the mattress._

 _"Kurt..."_

 _"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"_

 _"Kurt..." He couldn't help the slight growl in his voice, some it the rasp of whatever sickness he was festering, but the bulk of it frustration, because he had something... something to say? to do? Something! But he didn't know what it was, the urgency growing exponentially as the words slipped further and further away, lost in the fog of fever and pain. But it was important, and he had to had to had to had to... "Kurt?"_

 _"What is it baby?"_

 _"Stay."_

 _"I will."_

 _Blaine shook his head, because that was only half right, the connotation all wrong, lacking the gravity and the sentiment, but... His eyes started to fall shut as Carole unclasped the pulse/ox reader from his index finger and attempted to wrestle his hand through the sleeve of his robe. He tried to cooperate, registering with some small part of his mind that she needed him to tip forward so she could get the other side, and so he did._

 _"Okay, now, sweetie. Sit back and let me get you an extra pair of socks... Blaine?"_

 _"Blaine?! What's wrong with him?"_

 _"Kurt, honey, I think he's just fallen back to sleep. Let him be. I'm pretty sure Thomas can carry him to the car."_

 _"No!" What Blaine intended to come out as a rousing shout of protest, the first gasping, sucking breath of a drowning man just breaching the surface, came out instead as a startled choke, somewhere between a snore and a gurgle that apparently only Kurt heard._

 _He knew. Blaine knew what it was, what he had to do. And he had to do it now. His hold on Kurt's hand intensified to a death grip, his other hand yanking the cannula tube away from face as he surged forward, dragging Kurt down to him._

 _"Blaine? Baby? What do you need?"_

 _"Forever," Blaine whispered. "I need forever. With you."_

 _Kurt's eyes widened, and he inhaled sharply. "What are you...?"_

 _"Marry me."_

 _His dad picked that moment to rush into the room, his coat open and barely pulled over his shoulders as he bent to pick Blaine up out of the bed, oblivious. Blaine resisted, eyes locked with Kurt's and their hands fused together by sheer strength of will. Blaine was sure he saw an almost imperceptible nod, the movement just enough to tip a tear down Kurt's cheek, before Kurt kissed his knuckle and said, "I want forever, too. But you're so sick, baby. Ask me again when you're not delirious, okay?"_

 _Kurt's eyes were streaming as he dropped Blaine's hand, and before Blaine could say anything more, he was curled into his father's chest, his ability to hold his head up suddenly sapped away._

-#-

"Finn?" Mr. Schuester's voice roused him from is half-awake stupor at the side of the choir room where he'd perched himself on his usual stool while waiting for the rest of the club to file in. He hadn't meant to nearly fall asleep, but it had been a long day, a long several days, if he was honest. Finn straightened, wiping his sweaty palms dry on the denim of his jeans when he looked up to see everyone staring at him expectantly. "You had some news you wanted to share?" Mr. Schuester prodded.

"Yeah, uh, thanks Mr. Schue," Finn said, sliding off the stool. For some reason, he couldn't find it in him to look up and face the kids, just yet. He'd have thought he'd be tired of staring at the floor, at floors in general - the dusty carpet under his dorm bed when he rolled out trying to reach his phone at four that morning, the tile in the Andersons' kitchen, glaring white reflection of the fluorescent lighting in the hospital waiting room, and now the familiar, acoustically friendly linoleum of the choir room. His fatigue really wasn't specific to the scenery, though. He was just tired to the bone, the floor the only thing solid enough to hold him up.

And he definitely wasn't looking forward to this.

"Um, I, uh, well, I have a... an update, I guess you'd call it, about Blaine."

"He had his surgery this morning, right?" Tina supplied.

"How's he doing?" Marley asked.

"When can we see him?" Finn could just make out the two smaller wheels of Artie's chair where it was locked directly in front of him.

"I tried texting his parents and even Kurt to find out, but no one's answered me all day." Sam's tone was somewhere between anxious and accusatory.

Finn couldn't blame them for being worried. "Actually, he, uh, he didn't have the surgery."

"Well, why not?" Jake asked. "I thought it was really important to make sure he can hold out until they find him a new heart."

"I-it is," Finn granted. "But he's been fighting a low grade fever for a couple of days now, and last night it spiked high enough that they had to bring him to the hospital. It turns out that infection he had a while back never really went away. They've got him on antibiotics and are working to bring his fever down, but they obviously can't operate while he's sick, so..." His hands slid into his pockets as he shrugged, not knowing if he was really doing a good job of explaining things. He wasn't sure they understood the implications. Heck, he wasn't sure he understood them himself. Just... "Well, it's bad."

"Bad as in...?" Kitty prodded. "He didn't survive that whole lockdown and then the coma and everything to be taken out by a fever, right?"

Finn didn't know where the thickness in his throat came from, but it took a couple of swallows before he could respond. "No. I mean, probably not. The fever was already starting to come down when I left, but they still don't know where the infection started, and if they can't find it, they can't be a hundred percent sure that they've cleared it up." His eyes darted up, half-hoping someone would fill in the blanks and finish the thought process for him. When no one did, he cleared his throat roughly. "If they can't guarantee the infection is cleared up, they can't put him on the transplant list."

"Wait, so he didn't get the surgery, and they won't give him a new heart, either?" Finn didn't have to look up to know Sam's eyes were filled to overflowing. He'd heard that tone in his voice enough times, knew how Sam was never afraid to show how much he cared about the people in his life. "Doesn't that pretty much mean he'll..."

"No!" Finn knew exactly what he was trying to say, and he knew it was the truth, but so far no one had said it out loud, and Finn planned to keep it that way. "Once the fever goes down, and he's a little stronger, they'll do the surgery. They just..."

"Won't put him on the list," Tina finished through a sob.

"Not if they can't figure out what's causing the infection. It's already come back, despite treatment, and they won't risk another heart failing because of it."

"Well, did they check his teeth?"

Finn did look up, then. He had to see for himself if Brittany was serious, because she'd always been a little off the wall with her observations, and a little naive in her beliefs, but he had a hard time believing she would ever be just plain insensitive. He was right. Her voice may have been clear, but her expression was clearly affected, her eyes a mirror of Sam's as she held held tight to his hand. She brushed a thumb under her lower lashes to catch the overflow before adding on.

"I just meant... I saw on Animal Planet... when puppies have an infection in their teeth, it can spread to their hearts and make them really sick," she explained, ducking her gaze to where Sam's hand was clutching her hers. "If they haven't checked Blaine's teeth..Maybe we could hire a private detective to track down House and Cuddy now that their show is over and they're on the lamb together. If anyone can figure this out, they can."

"Seriously, Brittany?" Tina snapped. "Blaine is not a puppy!" She was openly sobbing at that point. "Your little Brittany-isms are cute, and we humor you because there's a strange kind of bliss in your ignorance, but this is Blaine's life we're talking about!" She folded her arms across her chest and ducked her chin before adding, "And Blaine has really pretty teeth," almost under her breath.

"I'm sorry, I..."

"Brittany! You're a genius!" Brittany was cut off by Sam's mouth covering hers in a fierce kiss. He held her face between his hands and was literally beaming when he pulled back.

She looked back at him, her expression somewhere between a laugh and a cry, mostly dumbfounded as she wiped more tears from her eyes. "Well, that's fairly obvious. My near perfect math SAT scores would tend to agree with you, but aren't we supposed to be talking about Blaine?"

"I am!" Sam spun in his chair. "Finn, you need to call Kurt. Tell him they need to check Blaine's teeth. "

"Um," Mr. Schuester jumped in, rubbing the back of his neck and lifting his eyebrows as if he really didn't know how to steer this particular train back onto the tracks but felt it necessary to interject a voice of reason. "Sam, I'm sure that Kurt and the Andersons are dealing with enough at the moment without fielding a hundred random Hail Marys. I know you just want to help, but..."

Sam actually leapt out of his chair, shoving it back into the riser with a scrape as he did so, and gripped Finn by the shoulders. "No! I'm serious. I know it sounds a little far out, okay, maybe a lot, but I will bet a-a million dollars, which I don't have yet, but it doesn't matter, because I know I'm right. It's his teeth."

Finn pulled back with a shake of his head. "Dude, what are you talking about? Sam, I'm not saying I don't believe you, but what makes you so sure?"

At that point, Sam turned to face the rest of the room as if he was about to deliver his dissertation, bubbling with barely contained enthusiasm. "Look, not everyone knows this, and I'm not even sure Blaine has told anyone else," he waved his hands as he shrugged, "except, probably Kurt, of course. I mean, Kurt had to have noticed, as much time as those two spend with their faces stuck together." He shook his head before he got even farther from the point. "But, anyway. You remember how Blaine said he transferred to Dalton after he got bashed at his old school?"

Most of the room nodded, still not following.

"Well, he got really messed up when that happened, in more ways than one- broken bones, internal bleeding, closed head trauma- but the one thing that he never talks about is that they actually kicked some of his teeth out. It was like, brutal, you know, and they had to do a separate surgery just to remove all the pieces from his jaw. You can't tell by looking at him, because they were his back teeth. His parents wanted to replace them with dental implants but the orthodontist said to wait until his wisdom teeth stopped moving to make sure everything would fit right."

When he was met with a room divided between expressions of horror and blank stares, he threw is hands up. "Don't you get it? His wisdom teeth have been moving for months. He doesn't like to mention it, but they've really been bothering him. Maybe they missed something when they took out the pieces, and what everyone has just been writing off as a side effect of his new teeth coming in is really the infection that no one's been able to figure out." He turned to Finn for validation. "Dude, don't you remember? The day we went to stay with him while they ran all those tests on his heart, when they started him on the antibiotics? He was supposed to go to the orthodontist that day because his teeth were hurting him so much, but the cardiologist took priority."

"Sam... I... yeah, I remember that, but..." Finn stammered. It made sense in that strange kind of way that everything Brittany said made sense, but still...

"Fine!" Sam pulled out his own phone and started texting. "I'll text him myself. I'm right on this one. I know it."

-#- Regionals -#-

Blaine snapped the velvet box closed and dropped it on the nightstand when the doorbell rang and reminded him that he was on a tight schedule and only half dressed. Tucking the crumpled sheet of paper into his pants pocket, he knew he really should try on the jacket again, since it'd been over a year since he last wore it, but he hadn't even donned his shirt, yet, so he buttoned his slacks loosely, leaving his belt unbuckled for the time being and wiggled his toes one more time to make sure the compression socks weren't pulled too high before he slipped on his dress shoes. He grinned at his own reflection across the toe, no doubt Kurt's doing, and used the handle on his oxygen tank cart to lever himself up as his mother darted down the hall to answer the door. He followed after at a much slower pace now that he was relegated to drag the canister with him-doctor/dad's orders after he was discharged from the hospital two days ago- only making it as far as the landing on the stairs before she beckoned Finn in.

"Good morning, Finn," she greeted, one hand pressing the back on her earring. "Thank you so much for coming. I know you probably had your hands full with the kids today."

"Awwh, no Mrs. Anderson," Finn dismissed. "Mr. Schue's got everything under control. They don't actually need me there until it's time to perform. I was just going to spend the morning with Puck working on the bike. It took him awhile, but he finally found that part we need for the clutch."

She looked out, her expression incredulous at the motorcycle parked in the driveway. "Tell me you didn't ride over here on a broken motor bike?"

"Nah," Finn grinned, "It's fine. We hadn't started yet. It's good you called when you did, though. Another thirty minutes, and it would've been in pieces."

"Well, thank you so much, again. Everything being so spur of the moment, I'll be surprised if this is the one oversight we have to deal with today. Thomas usually does it, but he and Burt had to drive over to McKinley with the truck- something about a golf cart- and Kurt's still helping Carole with decorations. He's going to change there. Cooper had to fly back to L.A. to do some damage control with his agent and is heading straight to the competition as soon as he lands. I've been informed I'm kind of useless at these things, so..."

"Really, it's no problem, Mrs. A. I'm glad to help." He noticed Blaine waiting at the bottom of the staircase. "Hey, Blaine. Good to see you on your feet, man. You really had us worried for a while there."

"Yeah, who knew a little minor dental surgery could make my whole body feel better?" He gave his jaw a rub with his free hand, surprised at how little it hurt. It really was almost miraculous how quickly he felt better once the infection was located and drained.

"Ready for the big day?"

Blaine quirked an eyebrow, looking down at himself in all his half-dressed glory. "Not exactly."

"Well, you boys know what you need to do," his mom said as she closed the front door. "I'm right down the hall if you need anything. We have to leave here in an hour. Finn you can ride with us, unless you need to go back to the house for anything?"

Finn shrugged, opening his letter jacket to expose the suitcoat and tie underneath. "I dressed before I came over. You go finish up yourself, Mrs. A. You look real nice, by the way."

She blushed and patted him on the shoulder. "Thank you dear. Now scoot. We can't be late."

Finn grabbed the handle of Blaine's cart and dragged it behind the two of them as Blaine led him down the hall to the bathroom.

"I really am sorry we had to call you for this," Blaine apologized. "I'm pretty okay with the scruff most days, but..."

"Not today. No, dude, I get it."

Blaine lowered himself on the edge of the vanity, reaching behind himself to turn on the tap as he nodded to the razor and shaving cream on the shelf beside the sink. "I just can't anymore. If I try to lift my arms above my heart for more than a couple of seconds at a time, I start to feel like I just ran a marathon."

Finn took him by his shoulders, hunching down just enough to look Blaine in the eye. "I'm glad to help, all right? You don't have to feel bad about asking for help. We're practically family, remember?" When Blaine nodded, Finn wrapped a towel over his shoulders and used a wet wash cloth to get Blaine's face wet before applying the shaving cream. They fell silent, neither one wanting to risk breaking Finn's concentration as he raised the razor and took one then two swipes, both of them grinning when there was no blood shed. "See, no big deal," Finn dismissed.

The silence got thick once more as Finn dipped the razor into the running tap water to clean it.

"My mom didn't get you out of bed, did she?" Blaine asked. "You look kind of tired."

He might've been mistaken, but Blaine thought he saw heat climb up Finn's cheeks. "No, uh, she didn't. I just, uh, really didn't get to sleep last night is all. Rachel and Santana flew in, you know, for the big day."

Blaine schooled his face to stay neutral in the interest of not being fleyed alive even as he fought back a surprised grin. "Really? So... you and Rachel...?"

Finn didn't even try to hide his grin. "Yeah. We haven't really told anyone yet, but yeah."

"Since when?" Blaine prodded.

"Uh, since she and Santana came back after the lockdown thing. We had some time to talk things over, you know, and we were both so inspired by you and Kurt and how you two manage to work through everything. We saw how you took some time apart and came out better on the other side and realized that maybe our breakup didn't have to be the end. We both kinda felt like maybe we didn't fight hard enough for us, and we've been working on it ever since. We took a page out of you guys' book and make sure we talk every day, no matter what. It seems to be helping." He rinsed the razor once last time before dropping it into the holder and turning off the water.

"I'm guessing last night you did a little more than talk," Blaine smirked.

Finn's expression morphed from hesitantly gleeful to outright smitten. "We haven't, like, officially re-instated our engagement or anything, but I'm... I'm really happy. I think we're going to make it this time. I-I really do."

"That's awesome, man." And if Finn misinterpreted his request for a helping hand sliding off the vanity as an invitation for a bro hug, well, Blaine didn't have a problem with that, clapping him on the back.

"Good things are coming, man. I can feel it, you know? For all of us." They pulled apart as Blaine steadied himself on his feet. "Especially you." He kept his hand on Blaine's shoulder. "I know right now it seems like you're way overdue, but something's coming down the pipe for you, too, bro. You and Kurt are the real thing, and the two of you are going to beat this. You are going to dance at your wedding." The shoulder squeeze was somewhere between a second hug and a reassuring pat, genuine and warm. "I feel it here, in my heart, dude. I mean that."

When Blaine didn't know quite how to respond, leaning heavily on the oxygen cart and unable to even remember what it felt like to walk without losing his breath, Finn cleared his throat against his fist and then scrubbed it over the pocket of his slacks before pushing out into the hall. "Now, let's get you in that blazer so I can help you with your tie, and we should be just about ready. You have the, uh..."

"Yup. And I've got my speech," Blaine added, patting his pocket hard enough to crinkle the paper and reassure him it was still there. Finn turned to head down the hall. "And Finn?"

"Yeah, dude?"

"Since we're sharing good news..."

"What?"

"We got the call last night."

"The call?" Finn's brow scrunched in confusion momentarily, before his eyebrows peaked almost comically. "The call! Oh! THE call?"

"Yeah," Blaine nodded, swallowing hard against the rising tsunami in his chest even as a grin split his face, a relieved laugh bubbling out.

"That's... that's great, man. I'm so happy for you."

This time, the hug was exactly what Blaine needed.

Sometimes you laugh to keep from crying; sometimes the laughter is exponentially better filtered through tears.

-#-

 _"Kurt, what does it say?"_

 _"98.4. Fever's gone. I should probably bring you a sweater."_

 _"So, I'm not delirious, not dizzy, annnnd, I'm not manic." He traced his fingertips along Kurt's forearm, drawing out his words with the scrape of his thumbnail on the corded tendons of his wrist. "Annnnnd I really don't think I could take it if you told me to ask again- when I'm not in the hospital, or after the surgery, or once I'm on the transplant list- because if I think any farther ahead than right now, I lose sight of how it feels to be with you just like this, and I don't want to miss this. Not ever."_

 _"Blaine... I..."_

 _"I'm not saying tomorrow or next week, next year or five years from now..." he gave Kurt's hand a squeeze at the last, shaking his head. "I just need to know that you see us together on the far side of this. We're endgame, aren't we? Just tell me if that's where this is going." He pulled Kurt's hand to his lap, clasping both of his own around it, fingers to palm while his thumbs stroked over the backs of his knuckles. "Will you marry me... someday?"_

 _"Blaine, I wish I had one of these monitors on me right now so you'd be able to see that I'm not feverish or otherwise out of my mind either when I say I don't..." a giant whooping inhale, "Blaine, I don't want to."_

 _Blaine felt himself start to fall backward as if punched to the gut, felt himself as well, anchored and tethered by Kurt's hands at his shoulders and refusing to let him go. He shook his head, and when Blaine's eyes finally focused on Kurt's the twinkle was more than unshed tears, a pull in the corners of his lips as he urged, "No, Blaine. Listen. Listen to me, okay. I don't want to wait. I don't want to wait for a someday that's maybe somewhere on the far side of this. We ARE endgame, Blaine, and I don't want to wait until the end."_

 _"Kurt..." Blaine ducked his head to his chest, the heat of the blush on his cheeks a weight he couldn't brace up even as the knots in his chest uncoiled, one strand at a time._

 _"No, don't... Let me finish, okay?" Blaine nodded, his eyes searching Kurt's, hope rising up to fill in where the worry and fear had bled out. "We've had better, worse, sickness, health already, haven't we? Why can't we have this day forward?" He sat back slightly, a physical representation of widening perspective. They had to look at the bigger picture, too. "You know it's about more than just you and me, though, and I don't want anyone else to ever, ever be able to question whether we rushed into something out of fear- because we were afraid of losing each other."_

 _Blaine swallowed, trying his best not to cry, because he_ _ **was**_ _afraid. They both were. That didn't make this any less real. But he didn't speak. He trusted Kurt to know without saying. He hoped for more than he was probably allowed._

 _"But Blaine I will marry you. On the other side of this. When we're not afraid every second of every day. I promise you that I am in this forever. Most of all, though, I want the world to know that for me, forever starts now."_

 _"What are you saying?"_

 _"Blaine, do you trust me?"_

 _"With my everything."_

 _"I have an idea. Something that Trent and Sebastian said struck a chord in me. It's a little of a stretch, I mean, the Warblers aren't a real fraternity; the brotherhood is only implied, and we're not even members anymore, but... Blaine, if I can set it up so that we can promise ourselves to each other in front of all our family and friends, sort of a promise to make a promise, how soon would be too soon for you?"_

 _Blaine lunged forward, his hands leaving Kurt's in his lap, fisting his hair instead, before kissing him for all he was worth. "Yesterday isn't soon enough."_

"Dude, your phone made that tweety bird noise," Finn said, leaning between the seats to pat Blaine on the shoulder. "It's probably a text from Kurt. You better check it before he starts freaking out. Burt said he was barely keeping it together."

Blaine startled from is reverie, reaching for the phone as it chirped again. "Thanks, man. Zoned out for a minute there. I got it."

 **Kurt:** Decorations are finished and invitations are being hand delivered to all the choirs. Now, I just need my handsome boyfriend.

 **Blaine:** We're in the car, now. Should be there in fifteen minutes.

 **Kurt:** Oh, thank Gaga. I was afraid Finn had exsanguinated you.

 **Blaine:** Finn says he doesn't know what that means, but, HEY!

 **Kurt:** Tell Finn just to get you here in one piece. I need you to put me back together after the morning I have had. Can you believe Rachel showed up and demanded to sing?

 **Blaine:** Actually, yes, I can. You didn't waste too much time arguing with her, did you? You know it's a lost cause. Besides, we both know she'll be amazing.

 **Kurt:** I know, which is why I let her do a prelude. The guests will be able to follow her voice through the halls until they reach the staircase. It'll be the perfect siren song to draw them in. She's even got the Warblers rehearsing as her backup. They sound amazing, themselves, by the way. They're going to sing us in and out, with Finn and Sam taking the lead for the Switchfoot song. I hope people don't read too much into them using a song from "A Walk To Remember." This is supposed to be a happy day.

 **Blaine:** We did agree to the song choice. Does anyone even remember that movie?

 **Kurt:** Are you kidding? Mandy Moore as the dying minister's daughter seizing her last chance at love before she succumbs to leukemia but only after marrying the boy who promised not to fall in love with her in the first place? I still watch that when I need a good cry. I can't be the only one.

 **Blaine:** Well, the song is still perfect. We're almost there. I can't wait to see you. I don't think this is going to seem real until I do.

 **Blaine** : You're sure about this, right? I need you to be sure.

 **Kurt:** Blaine, forever's getting shorter by the minute. I don't want to waste another second of it being anything but yours.

"Dude, are you okay?" Finn leaned between the seats and grasped his shoulder as Blaine attempted to wipe the tears from his eyes before they could drip onto his phone.

"Yeah, I'm... amazing."

 **Blaine:** I. Love. You.

 **Kurt:** I see your car. Forever starts now, baby.

-#-

Sam's hand was shaking so hard Brittany had to help him with his tie and the buttons on his cardigan. He couldn't remember ever being this wired on a competition day. But then, he'd never been very good with secrets. And he did have that whole extra song to learn, now. That made two he had to nail for Blaine. He had plenty of reason to be panicking right about then.

"Sam, stop," Brittany scolded, taking his hands in hers as he tried to undo the ones she'd just fastened only to refasten them again out of order. He huffed, tilting his head almost completely sideways before gazing up at the ceiling, which was a lot farther up than he was used to. Dalton Academy definitely wasn't built on a public school dime, not with its vaulted ceilings, skylights, and an entire wall of windows in every classroom. It was a little unsettling. "I swear, you'd think you've never been to a competition before. C'mon, just last year you showed up less than a week before Sectionals and saved the whole show. You're like the show choir secret weapon." She tugged his tie straight, smoothing his collar around it as she looked at him in that half cross-eyed way she did when she put herself in his personal space without realizing, then gave a lopsided grin as she lifted his chin. "Let's put our superhero underpants on and not take them off until we win this thing. Blaine's going to be watching, remember? You saved him, and now you're going to make him proud by singing his song. You're a good friend, Sam."

He sniffed once, and dropped his head to her shoulder. "We gotta kill this one, you know? For Blaine."

"We will," she promised, turning away suddenly as someone knocked on the door. "I wonder who that could be? Everyone's already..."

"Open up, bitches! I'm late for a very important date!" There was no mistaking Becky Jackson's ascerbic charm, even through the heavy door.

Mr. Schuester made it there first, dodging deep purple skirts as the girls put the final touches on their hair and makeup.

"Becky!" He feigned pleasant surprise as she barged passed him into the green room. "To what do we owe this surprise? I thought you were still serving your suspension."

"I'm suspended from McKinley, dumbass. Not Dalton."

He scrubbed the back of his head and gesticulated in confusion before settling one hand on his hip and dropping his forehead into the other. "Well, what brings you to Dalton, then? If this is another one of Sue's attempts at sabotage..."

"My new boyfriend goes here. And since he and the Warblers are putting on this whole shindig for you losers, I've been sent on their behalf to tell you that the honor of your presence is requested for an impromptu performance on the grand staircase immediately following the final performance. Come as you are. And. Don't. Be. Late!" She punctuated the last four syllables by poking Mr. Schuester in his sweater vest before shoving an envelope into his hand and stomping out.

Schue was still fumbling with the envelope when Sam made it across the room to him. "Is that it?" He asked. "That's the invitation?" He didn't know if he was more excited or relieved that he no longer had to keep the secret.

Mr. Schue read the contents with a grimace of confusion that gradually melted into a pleased smile before he looked up from the paper, eyes glistening. "Sam? You knew about this?"

Sam snatched the page out of his hands and read it over quickly. "It is! Oh, thank God. I was about to bust trying to keep this a secret. Blaine swore me to secrecy."

Tina reached around him and snagged the invitation with a scowl at having been kept out of the loop. "What secret? And why would Blaine tell you and not me?" She demanded. She shook the page straight as if the crease from being placed in the envelope was put there specifically to offend her, reading it with a glower that melted into something else entirely. "Oh my gosh! I can't believe it!" She flailed and let out a joyful squeal. "This is perfect! I'm so happy for them."

Kitty snatched the envelope and read it half aloud, "Dear New Directions, blah, blah, you are cordially invited...blah, blah, impromptu performance... in recognition of..." She dropped the note to her side as a confused scowl pinched her features. "What the hell is a pinning?"

-#-

Kurt's heart pounded against his ribcage as Mrs. Anderson pulled up to the curb. He couldn't have been more on edge if someone had just detonated a cannon behind him. To make it worse, he hadn't been wearing the old, familiar navy and red blazer long enough to get used to the scratchiness, and he couldn't stop constantly running a finger under the cuffs where it seemed to be chafing more than he remembered it doing the first time he put it on. He'd have thought he'd grown a tougher skin in the nearly two years since he'd last worn it, but the red marks left by his freshly manicured fingernails suggested otherwise.

His breath hitched as the car pulled up, and he spied Blaine in the shotgun seat, partially obscured by the reflection of the sky through trees across the freshly cleaned window glass. They'd gone from bud to almost fully leafed out in just the week since Blaine got out of the hospital the first time, the birch in the courtyard almost to the point of dropping its catkins and staining the sidewalk beneath it. Kurt closed his eyes and let the rustling wind guide his breath, filling his lungs like a billow and deflating as if through a straw. He couldn't believe this was real. Really, really real. To make sure, he patted each of his pockets, box in one, crinkled paper in the other, then stepped up to the car.

He unstrapped the oxygen tank from the back of Blaine's seat before opening the passenger door and leaning in for the end of the tubing he needed to re-attach but was drawn into a kiss before he could make the connection. Oh yeah. Really real. Opening his eyes, he pulled back just enough to free his lips, the incidental contact between them a flutter of breath and butterfly kisses. "Keep that up, and I'm the one who's going to need this."

He pulled the tank out onto the curb and reached for Blaine's elbow with one hand and his shoulder with the other, levering him onto the sidewalk as Finn exited the passenger door on the other side of the car. It was lucky Pam was able to drive that close to the steering wheel with Finn's knees jammed against the back of her seat. Before shutting the door, Kurt leaned down and addressed Blaine's mom. "The show's about to start, Mrs. Anderson. My parents are with Dr. Anderson and Ms. Pillsbury, saving you a seat in the auditorium. Cooper's backstage with the Warblers giving an impromptu Masterclass on Stage Presence." He couldn't help the slight roll of his eyes. "Blaine's ride will be here any second. If you wanna park, one of the Warblers will take you to your seat."

"Okay, sweetie." She sighed with a teary grin. "Oh, you boys both look so handsome. I think I'm going to go have a mom moment out here in the car before I head on in. Hopefully I won't miss too much." Putting the car in gear, she added. "You take care of each other, now. I'll see you after the show."

"Love you, Mama," Blaine said with a wave, and Kurt shut the door.

She'd barely pulled away when a strange horn sounded behind them, and they turned to see a golf cart with 'Property of the WMHS Cheerios' emblazoned on the front of it coming down the sidewalk towards them.

Blaine huffed a disbelieving chuckle. "No limousine?"

Kurt gave him another quick peck. "My guy rides in style on his special day."

"Hey, save that for after the ceremony!" Sebastian parked the golf cart and leaped out, running around to grab the oxygen tank as Kurt helped Blaine to the cart. "Mr. Anderson, your chariot awaits."

Blaine eyed it skeptically. "Where did you get the Cheerios' golf cart? Sue Sylvester's not going to crash our big day, is she?"

"Nah. Trent's girlfriend is a Cheerio. Apparently she's real tight with the coach, and Sylvester was just itching to make amends for the whole reckless endangerment thing. She donated it for the day. No strings attached," Sebastian explaine. "Plus, as co-captain of the Cheerios, it's practically your personal Air Force One."

"Well, then. Who are we to deny Sue her shot at nirvana?" Blaine fidgeted with the handle of his oxygen cart. "I don't suppose she threw in a forklift to move this thing around?"

Sebastian smirked as he hoisted the tank into the golf cart. "That's what you've got me for. I am officially at your beck and call man for the rest of the day. I promise to get you everywhere you need to be. No mess. No stress."

Blaine snickered into his chest. "I think maybe you've done enough already, don't you?"

"Mr. Anderson, whatever do you mean?" Sebastian feigned innocence.

"I mean apparently a certain State's Attorney placed a couple of calls to UNOS and the selection committee questioning the legality of denying someone a place on the transplant list based on their mental health status, seeing as how illness in itself can contribute to a downturn in mental health."

Sebastian shrugged. "Well, I did owe you one. I hope I didn't overstep?"

"You probably did, but since we got the call last night that I'm officially on the UNOS heart transplant list, I would say that we are officially even. Or we will be."

"What do you mean?" Sebastian looked worried until Blaine pulled him into a hug which he returned, a giant grin splitting his face that didn't falter even as Kurt drew him in as well. "That's awesome. Congrats, man! So what happens next?"

"Um, well, I go in next week, once my course of antibiotics is over, and they'll run some tests to make sure the infection is completely out of my system. If it is, then I'm officially on the list, and they'll give me my pager..."

"A pager? They're still using those dinosaurs?"

Blaine shrugged. "Actually, nowadays they mostly call your cell phone, but I requested the pager. Fan of the classics, you know?"

"All right, gentlemen," Kurt interrupted, "while this is all quite charming, the competition is about to start. We need to move if we're going to see the show."

"Yes, sir. Bip, bip, bip, right on that," Sebastian mock saluted before hustling Blaine onto seat with Kurt's help before the two of them jumped in on either side of him as Finn stood on the rear bumper, glomming onto the roof support. Pausing momentarily after turning the key, Sebastian pulled a chauffer's cap out from inside his blazer and donned it as he beeped the horn and eased the accelerator down. "We're off."

-#-

"Kurt, are you nervous?" Blaine couldn't help but smile at the warmth of deja vu that coursed through him, a reminder of another beginning, when everything was fresh and new between them, winter already passed and not even a blip on the horizon. It seemed so long ago. They'd weathered so much. And yet, here was Kurt nervous and twitching as though this was their first time to cross a stage together. Only it was worse now. They both knew how much they had to lose.

"Hey!" He caught Kurt's hands before he could scratch under the cuffs of his blazer for probably the dozenth time since they'd parked in the wings to watch the New Directions. "I admit, that contortionist judge kind of made my skin crawl, too, but scratching yourself raw isn't going to help."

Kurt's fingers trembled against his, a quiver twanging between them, and once Blaine stopped his fidgeting the tension in the rest of his body ramped up, his breath coming in short, tight gasps. "I-it's not about that," Kurt denied, chewing at his lower lip.

Blaine ducked down so he could look Kurt in the face instead of at the top of his head while Kurt kept his gaze fixed downward.

"I know." Blaine turned in his seat, shaking off the questioning glances of Cooper and the group of Warblers that had joined them backstage to watch. "Kurt, Cooper mentioned that you went to see Dr. Zalobny."

Kurt nodded, even though it hadn't been posed as a question.

"And did she help you?"

When Kurt didn't answer, Blaine strengthened his ministrations, thumbs massaging the backs of Kurt's hands. "Kurt, did she teach you how to breathe when things get a little overwhelming, so that you don't make it worse?"

Finally, Kurt nodded. "Do it with me, then, okay?" He slid his hands up Kurt's arms to his forearms, cupping his elbows in his palms and as Kurt's fingers dug into his forearms. "All right now, with me, deep breath in..." they breathed together, "and hold it." After a few seconds, he added, "Now let it out slowly, and start to unclench your fingers just a little, one knuckle at a time, if you can." He waited for the slightest release then started again. "In and hold... then let it out nice and slow. Let your hands rest on my arms. I'm not going anywhere." At the end of ten breaths, they were leaning into each other, weightless except the press of forehead to forehead, and Blaine was a little light-headed, probably from the oxygen. "Better?" he asked.

Kurt nodded without pulling back or opening his eyes.

"Well, then," Blaine sighed, "since you're nice and relaxed, there's probably something I should tell you... about the ceremony." He felt Kurt stiffen under his fingertips, but soothed the tension with his thumbs. "It's okay, it's nothing bad, just something we hadn't really discussed. I-I know we decided on the two sterling silver dove pins, since the Warblers don't actually have an official pin, and I think those are the best, you know, for every day, but I got you another one. It just reminded me of you, and I had to... I-I should have asked you first."

At that, the last bit of tension leached out as Kurt laughed, his breath hot across Blaine's cheek. "Okay, we really do belong together forever, because we are just eerily synced up right now."

Blaine pulled up slightly, catching Kurt's gaze. "Kurt? Did you...?"

"I got you a special pin, too. For special occasions, of course. We'll still wear the doves for every day. I was going to surprise you during the ceremony."

"Kurt, I don't know about you," Blaine chuckled, "But I don't think either one of us can handle any surprises today."

"No... of course you're right. We should definitely stick with the silver pins during the ceremony. The others will be just for us to know."

"Um, can I give it to you now, then?" He started to reach for his pocket and the jewelry box that nestled both of the bird pins, but Kurt caught his hand before it got too far.

"No. You know what? I want to pin yours over your new heart when you get it. We can have our own, private ceremony then." He threaded their fingers together. "Do you think you can wait 'til then to give me mine, too?"

Blaine nodded briskly, relishing the idea of a tangible future suddenly close enough to see on the horizon. It had been so long since he'd let himself believe in a day that wasn't today and a moment that wasn't now. "That's perfect."

"Hey, you lovebirds, New Directions are taking the stage."

"Showtime," Blaine said with an excited raise of his eyebrows as he turned toward the curtain.

"Showtime."

-#-

The New Directions did Blaine proud, his number once again bringing the audience to their feet, and he had to admit, it was almost harder watching it than performing it himself, not because he didn't think they could do it without him, but because it was obvious to him and to everyone else in the room that they... got it. They weren't actors delivering a public service announcement in the name of public relations. They lived it with him. They believed in it. They believed in him. He wasn't sure he'd ever wanted that for them, but he knew, after that performance, that everything he'd gone through, everything he was still going through... it made a difference. He didn't hide, and people were changed because of him. Whether he ever got his heart or not, even if he never danced at his wedding, he lived.

There wasn't time to revel in this new knowledge, though. No sooner had the New Directions taken their final bow, then Cooper strode out onto the stage, taking one of the bedazzled microphones from the stand to address the audience.

"Did you know about this?" Blaine whispered against Kurt's ear.

"No," Kurt admitted. "The Warblers are handling the show. I'm not surprised, though. You'd have thought the Archangel Michael had descended from Heaven when he showed up. They practically fell at his feet."

"Ladies and Gentlmen," Cooper began, "Cooper Anderson, here. I can't endorse any of the choirs that performed here today, but I can endorse someone who didn't get the chance. Now, he's backstage somewhere, and I won't embarrass him by dragging him out here, but my Pipsqueak little brother Blaine, who, truth be told, possesses all the real talent in our family, couldn't participate today, because his heart's not healthy enough to perform at the moment. Fortunately for Blaine, he got the word last night that he's been approved for a transplant, and with all the support he's been getting from his family and friends, we believe he will get the new heart he needs. None of that would be possible without all the work that's being done by The American Heart Association. Because of the research and advancements in treatment of heart disease and the technology that's available to compensate for a failing heart, my brother is alive today and about to get pinned. If you're one of the competing show choirs, family, or friends, you're invited to the ceremony which will take place while the judges deliberate over today's competition. Just follow the music. And if you're just looking for a way to pass the time until the awards are announced, please make your way to the concession stand."

"I share with all of you an innate aversion to five dollar popcorn and three dollar candy bars, but in support of their friend, my brother Blaine, our gracious hosts, the Warblers are donating ever penny from the sale of concessions today to the American Heart Association in Blaine's name. So, this is me, Cooper Anderson, giving you all a free pass to indulge completely guilt free, at least for today. And if that's not enough to get you out of your seats, there will be autographed photographs of yours truly in the lobby. Thank you."

To Blaine's surprise, more than half of the audience stood as Cooper signed off.

 _If I should die this very moment_  
 _I wouldn't fear_  
 _For I've never known completeness_  
 _Like being here_

As if she'd been watching on closed circuit television, Rachel's voice began to filter in through the door that led down the east hallway. As they'd predicted, she sounded amazing. "Gorecki" had never sounded so good. Kurt waved at his parents and Blaine's as the Waffletoots and any Hoosier Daddies who were still seated in the auditorium began to file toward that door.

"I guess that's our cue." Kurt squeezed Blaine's knee. "We're doing this."

"We're really doing this." Blaine pulled the cannula away from his nose and leaned in for a proper kiss, the moment lingering on his lips and his tongue. It tasted of peppermint and cinnamon, something like vanilla dressed over with dark chocolate and black coffee, burned like chili powder in his sinuses until his whole body tingled with a sneeze that never quite surfaced.

He'd never considered it before, what life tasted like. Alive had a flavor, and he was insatiable.

"Buckle up!" Sebastian put the golf cart in gear and sped down the hall to beat the crowd.

-#-

 _Wanna stay right here_  
 _Till the end of time till the earth stops turning_  
 _Gonna love you till the seas run dry_  
 _I've found the one I've waited for_

Sebastian's shortcut, unlike the one Blaine had led Kurt on the day they met, was actually shorter. Halfway there, they passed the New Directions who waved and catcalled, the back of the golf cart dipping suddenly as Finn and Sam abandoned the rest of the group and jumped aboard. Beside him, he felt Blaine draw in a surprised breath when they entered the main hall, seeing for the first time great swathes of sheer fabric draped down from the skylight and wrapped around the railing at the top of the staircase. The billowing folds were filled with rose petals and there was a Warbler posted at the trailing end of each one like dancers around a may pole, prepared to send ripples through the fabric that would gently loft the rose petals up into the air to rain down on them once the ceremony started. At the base of the staircase, a podium had been placed, a circle of flowers and greenery around it, the Warblers and Rachel situated on the lower steps as they serenaded the guests.

Wes was waiting at the podium and pulled Kurt unceremoniously from the cart, whisking him to the emergeny stairwell so they could get to the top without disrupting the performance as Sam and Finn took their places among the Warblers and Blaine disappeared down the opposite hall and into one of the classrooms. He'd have preferred a few extra minutes of quiet time with his boyfriend before they were sent to their respective corners, but he barely had time to miss him before Rachel's song built to its climax and started to fade away.

 _The one I've waited for_  
 _The one I've waited for_

"You got this," Wes offered, giving him a pat on the back and a thumbs up as he turned and hurried back to the main floor to "officiate" the ceremony.

Kurt barely had time to straighten his collar and give himself a quick check in the window glass of the nearest classroom door before applause and wolf whistles broke out from the crowd below, already having grown to capacity in the time it took him to get into position. As soon as the song died out completely, the hall lights dimmed to just the wall sconces and filtered skylight, not exactly candlelight, but the best they could do in the middle of the afternoon under a skylight.

(Switchfoot, **Learning to Breathe** )

 _Hello, good morning, how you do?_  
 _What makes your rising sun so new?_

Kurt shut his eyes and took a deep breath, practicing the technique he had used with Blaine backstage as the scent of drying rose petals coated his airways like a balm. He let the music flow over him, Finn's and then Sam's voice guided him into the moment, trading lyrics back and forth as he waited for cue and refused to look over the railing until it was time to descend.

 _Hello, good morning, how you been?_  
 _Yesterday left my head kicked in_  
 _I never, never thought that_  
 _I would fall like that_  
 _Never knew that I could hurt this bad_

Opening his eyes, Kurt straightened his shoulders and took the first step as the rose petals began to rain down around him.

 _I'm learning to breathe_  
 _I'm learning to crawl_  
 _I'm finding that you and you alone can break my fall_

 _I'm living again, awake and alive_  
 _I'm dying to breathe in these abundant skies_

 _These abundant skies, yeah_  
 _Abundant skies, yeah_

Halfway down, he finally saw Blaine, the golf cart now draped in greenery, Pavarotti Eleven perched in his cage as it dangled from the roof.

So this is the way I say I need You  
This is the way that I say I love You  
This is the way that I say I'm Yours  
This is the way, this is the way  
That I'm learning to breathe  
I'm learning to crawl  
I'm finding that You and You alone can break my fall  
I'm living again, awake and alive  
I'm dying to breathe in these abundant skies

Yes I'm dying to breathe in these abundant skies  
These abundant skies, yeah

The second he caught Blaine's eye, that was it. Kurt didn't notice the decorations or the ache from the hours of planning and bedecking that had gone into setting the perfect scene. He locked eyes with Blaine as soon as he exited the tunnel of Warblers lining the staircase, and after that, they might as well have been in a vacuum. Gliding down the final steps, he met Blaine's cart like Prince Charming helping Cinderella from her pumpkin coach and led him to the front of the podium where they stood, holding hands and facing each other as the song finished.

 _I_ _'m learning to breathe_  
 _I'm dying to breathe in these abundant skies_  
 _Hello, good morning, how you do?_

WHACK!

Kurt was so going to kill whoever it was that thought Wes needed a gavel to officiate a pinning.

"Tension breaker," Wes said, straightening his tie as he laid the gavel on the podium, "had to be done."

As obnoxious and crass as the delivery had been, it had the desired effect, a titter of laughter rolling through the hall as everyone took a breath.

"Good afternoon, everyone. You'll have to excuse me, as there really is no precedent for how this should proceed, and even if there was, knowing Blaine and Kurt as well as I do, I'm sure they'd have thrown it out anyway."

More laughter this time as well as a few wolf whistles from the New Directions. "Yeeah!"

Wes smiled, placing his single note card down in front of him. "The Warblers are only a fraternity in spirit, but even so, our brotherhood is true. While it's true we're firmly rooted in our traditions here, I think it's moments like this that remind us how important it is to establish a lush network of branches to feed those roots. Kurt was only technically a Warbler for several months, but he became an entire fork in the Warbler tree, changing our minds and our hearts so profoundly that I can honestly we say, we were a better group. And Blaine... what can I say about Blaine, except..." he cleared his throat, "Except, just knowing him and spending time with him makes me want to be a better person. He made me understand what the word brother actually means, not necessarily the person the world gives you but the one you'd give the world for."

Kurt couldn't help but notice the tears welling in Blaine's eyes, mostly because he was blinking away his own. If it kept on like this, he didn't know how they were going to make it through the ceremony.

"Once a Warbler, always a Warbler," Wes continued. "While that's true, and that's why we can stand before you as three men who haven't worn the blazer in months, it doesn't quite hit the mark on what it means to be able to stand here today. Blaine, Kurt, you are my brothers. I wish the world for you. Whatever you do from this day on, wherever you go, all of us go with you. You make us proud. You made us better. We give you the world." He tucked his notecard away inside his blazer, then leaned into the microphone. "Gentlemen, the floor is yours."

Kurt locked eyes with Blaine, the two of them already having decided that Blaine would go first so that he could sit after if he got too tired, and they waited for Wes to turn the mic around. Once he had, Blaine cleared his throat and looked over his shoulder at the crowd of famil and friends gathered around them.

"We met right here," he explained. "I had just come down the stairs, and Kurt stopped me to ask for directions. One moment I was checking my watch, running late for an impromptu performance in the Senior Commons, and the next this angel's voice stopped me in my tracks. Not only that, he derailed the entire train."

Laughter mixed with 'awws' in spattered interjection throughout the hall, and Blaine turned back to Kurt.

"Kurt, when I met you, I wasn't looking for anything. I'd run away from my last school and the memories that went along with it and found a safe place to land here. It took me awhile to get there, but I was happy. I thought I was. I thought I had everything I needed. I had friends. I had music. I had peace and quiet. I thought that's all there was."

"And then there you were, looking down at me from that spot on this staircase. I didn't know you. I didn't know anything about you, but I could tell right away that you were not the peace and quiet I had grown complacent in here. You were loud. In your own words, you stuck out like a sore thumb. It was obvious you didn't belong, and I knew that if I really believed in this place, in quiet and safe and living to fight another day, that I should put myself as far away from you as I possibly could."

"But I didn't."

He glanced around him, taking in for the first time the depth of the crowd that had gathered, always drawing people in, willing to share energy, most alive when he could give some of himself away. "I took this man's hand, and we ran down that hallway. And for those of you that know me, know I'm not in the habit of taking people's hands I've never met before. And I'm pretty sure he's figured out by now, that was never a shortcut."

He waited for the laughter to pass before continuing. "But I think that my soul knew something that my body and my mind didn't know yet. It knew that our hands were meant to hold each other... fearlessly and forever."

"Which is why it's never really felt like I've been getting to know you; it's always felt like I was remembering you from something. As if in every lifetime that you and I have ever lived, we've chosen to come back and find each other and fall in love all over again. Over and over. For all eternity."

"And I just feel so lucky that I found you so soon in this lifetime, because all I want to do, all I've ever wanted to do, is spend my life loving you."

"Kurt, I took your hand when every content and logical part of my mind was screaming at me to run away. I wasn't looking for anything, especially not something loud, something bright, something amazing and beautiful, because I wasn't allowed to have those things, not if I wanted to be safe. And I have to thank you for being so patient, for never taking my advice about blending in, for staying loud and staying bright so I couldn't look away. I am so sorry it took me so long to realize what I had in you. I didn't think I deserved to want anything more than I had. I didn't think I deserved to have what I wanted."

"But obviously I needed something. Something I didn't know I was looking for. Because, one day I opened my eyes, and there you were."

"I took your hand and everything I thought I was trying to achieve by running away, everything I thought I'd fight for another day, became just things I'd allowed myself to settle for."

"I took your hand, and I haven't settled for anything since."

He ducked his head with a blush, "And to think, you thought I was the one helping you."

"Kurt, my life started that day on this staircase, not because I stopped running away long enough to take your hand but because you took my hand and made a home for me so I didn't have to run anymore, a place where we could be loud and bright and beautiful and amazing together. You took my hand and instantly transported me farther than I ever got by running."

"And now I'm here to take your hand again, with everyone watching, so they can all know, the way I know, that we are infinite, unstoppable, and forever."

"Kurt Hummel, my amazing friend, my one true love, will you wear this pin as a symbol of everything you are to me now and everything we will be to each other until forever?"

Kurt's eyes were teary, his voice choked as he nodded, and descended the last remaining steps. "Yes. Yes, I will."

Blaine took the sterling silver dove from his pocket and placed the pin before taking both of Kurt's hands in his, then waited for Kurt to find his voice.

"Wow." Kurt sniffed. " I'm not sure I can follow that," he began, sharing a wet chuckle with anyone close enough to hear what he'd said. "I'm just... I'm so glad to have the chance."

He cleared his throat and his head, taking his strength from the hands in his.

"Blaine, I've always been lucky. Lucky in that, even though I've lost some very important people in my life, I've somehow managed to find myself surrounded by family and friends who love and accept me for who I am, and more than that, support me in everything I do. It's because of them that I've never really had any shortage of lofty dreams and goals or conviction in my ability to reach them." He paused briefly, somber in the next second. "But along with that, I also got this... burden, this belief that for every one of these amazing people I've been gifted with in my life, there are ten or even a hundred more that want me to fail."

"And no one else really understood that."

"I don't know where it happened, or why- maybe it was the day I lost my mom, or the first time I got tossed in the dumpster. Maybe it was the twentieth slushy or the hundredth locker check, but somewhere along the way I made up my mind that, despite all the wonderful people in my life who loved and supported me on a daily basis, the only way I was going to win against the hate was on my own. I decided to win by becoming the best and most amazing me that I could be."

"And the thing is, I thought I knew who that was. I thought I was the only one who knew who that was and that I was the only one who could get me there. While I wanted love and romance as much as anyone else, I resigned myself to finding it at the end of the journey, when I was already made. I saw my life laid out in front of me, one straight narrow path, and everything I was meant to have and meant to be was waiting for me at the end of it."

"Then I got lost. I got lost and ended up here on these very steps, and even though I didn't really know what I was looking for or where I needed to go, you took my hand and offered to take me there. You said you knew a shortcut."

"And here we are."

"One really long shortcut, a dead canary, three different schools, and a whole lot of soul searching later, we're right back where it all started, and there's no place I'd rather be."

"Blaine, before I knew you, I thought I knew who I was meant to be and how I would become that person. That person would have seen everything we've been through in the last two years as a giant detour, wasted time and effort. And I stand here, ready to take your hand all over again, knowing that person was wrong."

"We both know that it hasn't always been easy. This last year, especially, has been so trying, mentally and physically. I swear, at times it's felt like every force in the universe has been conspiring to take us away from each other, like somehow the universe is self-aware enough to realize that the two of us together can exist totally outside of it, that we're not made of stardust like the rest of it; we're the bang that reduced the stars to dust."

"It's afraid, the way I used to be, so sure of itself and its own power that it doesn't know how much bigger it can be."

"Blaine, before I knew you, I had goals and visions of the very best I believed I could ever hope to achieve."

"Because I know you, those dreams are bigger, brighter, and better. That bang is louder. Because I know you and have had these two years with you, I'm already a better man than I ever hoped to become someday. Because I know you, the road is wider, the universe broader, and the possibilities infinite. As long as you're holding my hand, and I'm holding yours, I know the journey will never end."

"Blaine Devon Anderson, my best friend and love of my life, will you wear this pin as a symbol and reminder that the stars are dust before us, and the road we walk together will neither be a shortcut or ever reach an end?"

"Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Of course I will," Blaine blurted so quickly and with so much enthusiasm, the crowd couldn't help but chuckle. His excitement made it hard for Kurt to complete the actual pinning part of the ceremony without stabbing himself in the fingers, but once he had their hands locked together once more.

They both turned, grinning from ear to ear, to Wes who shrugged and said, "I'm not sure there's anything left for me to say except, Kiss!"

They did, and before they even broke apart, the Warbler's struck up their final song, at which point Blaine and Kurt collapsed against each other, laughing into each other's shoulders at the song choice as the crowd wolf whistled their approval.

"I don't remember signing off on The Partridge Family for our recessional," Blaine snickered. "What happened to Air Supply?"

Kurt shrugged. "I balked a little, but you have to admit, it is kind of perfect. I'm saving Air Supply for our real wedding."

"It's growing on me," Blaine admitted, as the two were herded into the golf cart, this time with Sam at the helm, since Sebastian was busy doing his best David Cassidy impersonation. They traded waves and congratulatory handshakes as the crowd parted around the cart in its traverse of the shortcut that was never a shortcut through the halls of Dalton. By the time the final chorus and verse had started to fade, Blaine had to agree. "Perfect."

(The Partridge Family, **I Woke Up in Love this Morning** )

 _Do dreams come true?_  
 _Well, if they do,_  
 _I'll have you not for just a night,_  
 _but for my whole life through._  
 _Oh, I woke up in love this mornin'._  
 _I woke up in love this mornin'._  
 _Went to sleep with you on my mind._

-#-

"What you're not coming in?" Finn could tell Burt wanted him inside with the straggling New Directions, celebrating their Regionals win and the pinning with loud music and singing they could hear from the Andersons' driveway, but he had plans of his own. There was only so much a guy could share in other peoples' happiness before he got the itch to work a little harder on his own.

"Nah," he dismissed. "I still got a couple hours of daylight, and Puck's heading out of town tomorrow. I wanna get that clutch fixed, and uh..." He scratched the back of his neck, bursting to say something more, but he and Rachel weren't really telling people they were together yet.

Burt snickered to himself. "And I don't suppose that hot date you got planned with Rachel for later has anything to do with it?"

Finn laughed, relieved that he didn't have to say anything and too happy to keep it to himself. "Maybe," he shrugged.

Burt patted him on the back. "Yeah, well, there's a lot going on in town today. Watch that traffic on the way to the shop. Give me a call if you need any help with the bike."

"Yeah, Burt," Finn grinned. "I will."

"And Finn?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really happy for you. I know your mom is, too."

"Thanks, Burt."

Finn let himself fall into a quick hug. "You take care of yourself."

"I will."

Donning his helmet, Finn kicked the engine over and revelled in the power as he cranked the engine, revving it up several times before letting it find that happy idle. He walked it around in the driveway and pushed off, feet finding the pedals as he coasted into the street and waved over his shoulder before giving it gas.

He was still smiling to himself-at how good it felt to have people who cared about him and waited for his call, about having a girl he loved enough to give a second chance, about having a second chance himself, to have a dad, a brother, a family, heck two families- when he came up to the intersection and missed the downshift.

His smile only faltered at first. The bike had a few quirks, but he was used to them by now. Without missing a beat, he pressed in the clutch again. Nothing. He tried to shift anyway, foot working the pedal frantically as the bike failed to slow. There were no other cars ahead of him at the intersection, the light having just turned red as he approached. Cross traffic was already pulling away from the light, though, unaware that he was on a collision course.

Thumb clutch, foot pedal. Thumb clutch, foot pedal. Nothing and nothing.

He tried the brake, but without the clutch, it did nothing, and he was already at the point of no return. Even if the bike suddenly responded, he'd be in the intersection before he stopped. In his peripheral vision, he saw the eighteen wheeler cross under the light, air horn blowing as the driver braked the engine. Thinking fast, Finn did the only thing he could think of and laid the bike down, shutting his eyes as sparks flew up around him, his leg and hip grating across the pavement. He was only vaguely aware of the semi trailer passing overhead when he felt the harness of his helmet snap. The helmet ripped away as he slid along the pavement, losing momentum even as he narrowly avoided the truck tires and the cars waiting to cross from the other direction.

For a millisecond, he thought he'd made it, realizing with a second surge of adrenaline that he was clear of traffic and quickly coming to a stop.

That's when he met the curb with his back. His head snapped back. There was a flash of light as it connected with concrete before everything went black.

-TBC

AN: One more chapter left. I don't know when it will be up, but I'm pretty sure all the pieces are in place, so you probably know what's going to happen. I won't make you wait too long, assuming life doesn't get in the way again. As always, you guys remind me I still do some things right. All of your comments are pure gold.


	27. As It Should Be

AN: Well, here it is everyone. The end. I can't apologize enough for how long it took me to get this written. Since the last update, I have taken up the guitar again after twenty years and learned a new riding discipline, all in a desperate effort to stem the anxiety and depression from my job situation. In the end, I ended up leaving the job I thought I would retire from and have opted to start over again somewhere else. I start that new job tomorrow and vowed to finish this story before I do. It wasn't an easy decision or process, and it did take up all of my energy to get through it. This story suffered as a result, and I apologize. But I never stopped thinking about it, and I always intended to finish it. Whether it was stress, or just the fear of getting to the end and having it really be over, I was just not able to get it to flow. Every single scene in this chapter has been started and re-started at least three times. I just couldn't get it to work without coming out anti-climactic. While I'm still not entirely happy with the writing in this part, it is every bit the story I wanted to tell. I hope it satisfies. I thank Darren and his amazing met gala costume for reminding me that Glee is a campy show and taking it too seriously only ruins everything that made it great.

On another note, I was plowing through the tribute scene yesterday when I got a Facebook notification that reminded me it was actually the anniversary of Cory's death. I can't help but think that's too much of a coincidence. It also terrifies me that I can't possibly have done a good enough job that scene. I never really cared for the Finn character on the show, but I understood what he meant to the overarching story, and I have to believe that if they'd known when the story would end, they'd have set it up so that his death could have more meaning. I had not intended to write Finn into this story at all, simply because I knew the time line would progress past the point of his canon death, and I didn't want to deal with that. I was more than half finished writing this story when I decided Finn not only had to be in it, but that he had to be important. I hope I did him justice.

That being said, this chapter contains mentions of canon character death.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Burt grasped his wife's elbow, halting her, bent at the waist, before she could straighten to a full stand, then slid his fingers up the flat side of her arm until he had a firm grasp of her hand. "Sit."

"But I should check..."

"He's fine." Burt reached across himself and patted his second hand atop the other two. "Now, sit. You're off duty, at least until we land. C'mon. It's not every day we get to fly in a private jet. There's a fridge between our seats with actual full sized bottles of booze in it and sandwiches stuffed to bursting, not with alfalfa sprouts, but with the cow that ate the alfalfa. I'm pretty sure I heard a moo just now."

"I'm not hungry," Carole protested, despite sinking back into her seat. "And we really shouldn't take advantage."

"Are you kiddin'? That's why it's there. Honey, it's a private jet. If we don't eat it, who will? No one, that's who. And that cow would've died for nothing. Now, sit down with your husband and pickle some red meat with me. The boys are fine." He put a bottle of some expensive looking imported beer on the tray table and unwrapped a sandwich. "That Sebastian kid is taking care of them, and if you ask me, his karma needs all the help it can get. Leave 'em to it." He pushed half the sandwich across the tray. "Plus, I have a vested interest in making sure my wife takes a few minutes to enjoy herself for once."

Burt didn't miss the extra brightness in the corner of her lashes as she craned her neck around toward the back of the plane, the ever present smudge of mascara underneath just a shade darker than the circles under her eyes. She offered him a half-hearted, shaky smile and wiped at her cheek as she met his gaze but didn't reach for the proffered food.

"I draw the line at feeding you," he prodded. "At least not until we're both old and toothless and sucking pudding through a straw."

She picked up the half sandwich and raised it half to her mouth while keeping her ear not-so-subtly tipped over her far shoulder.

"Care..." He dropped his chin down and looked at her over the bridge of his nose, not too proud to beg. "Please?"

She relented her focus but set the sandwich down again. "They're just... too quiet. They're too quiet, don't you think? Shouldn't I check on the-"

"They're quiet," Burt agreed. "They're probably watching a movie, or napping, or reading one of those trashy gossip magazines. That's quiet. It only feels _too_ quiet because you're used to all the hospital noises." He took her half of the sandwich and raised it to her lips. "We're done with all that. No more, okay? No more alarms, no pages, no squeaking sneakers on linoleum floors or elevators dinging. Just quiet. It's a good thing. Now eat."

She took a bite and swallowed. "A good thing," she repeated ahead of a shaking inhale that he'd come to recognize as the sound of tears being swallowed. It'd taken a lot of tears to stem the flow enough for them to be swallowed.

"This is your Captain." A voice crackled into the cabin. "I hope everyone's enjoying the in-flight accommodations. You'll have another hour at cruising altitude to do so. There's nothing but blue skies between us and our final descent into LAX. Our eyes on the ground tell me that the rest of your group is sticking to their itinerary and should be at the interception point as planned and your car service is prepared to get you there as well. Sit back, relax, and let us get you where you're going. Those of you who are of legal age should feel free to partake. I highly recommend the imported dark ale. And for the rest of our guests, we have soda, sparkling water, and by special request, chocolate milk. Enjoy the remainder of your trip. I'll notify you to return to your seats before we begin our descent."

Burt pointed a finger up toward the speaker. "See? Good things. Lotsa good things. Relax. Enjoy." He pushed the sandwich closer to her lips again. "Eat."

She blocked his progression with her fingers momentarily, chin wrinkling as she said, "I love you," and then took a bite that was entirely too large for her mouth.

"I know."

-#-

"' _That show choir.'_ What does that even mean? And how does ' _everyone know_ ' that we're ' _that show choir_?'" Sam couldn't control the quiver in his voice, the amplitude of each wave cresting in sync with the tremor of nerves under his skin. He was officially freaking out, and now? Now was really not the time for it. Not with the glee club lining up backstage at Nationals and Throat Explosion preening and leering from the wings, just waiting for them to fail. Waiting for _Sam_ to fail.

"Sam, just focus. They're trying to intimidate us. We can't let them." Mr. Schuester had good game most of the time, but Sam wasn't interested in playing. He was done playing. Life was too friggin' short. He shrugged past Schue to the edge of the stage as though he could disappear into the velvet folds of curtain separating him and the rest of their ramshackle, decimated show choir from the Nationals audience that was probably preparing the rotten tomatoes as they spoke.

"Or what, Mr. Schue? Or we won't win? Is this your 'pull your head out of your ass, Sam, and be a leader' speech? Because, you know what? Been there, done that." He tried to push back his sleeves only to be thwarted by the cuffs of his suit jacket and the buttons on his shirt, settled for pushing his hair back, instead, while heaving a frustrated sigh. "Sophomore year, you tagged me and Quinn for Sectionals, even though you were totally off your mark about the Warblers, and we nearly got our asses handed to us. Junior year I changed schools to compete with you even though we shouldn't have had a snowball's chance in Hell against Shelby and The Troubletones. And this year, at Regionals, I stepped up and I... I pretended to be... I pretended to be Blaine. But you know what? It's not my job. It was never my job to lead this group, and I don't want it anymore. I c-can't. I can't."

He didn't mean to cry, but his throat was seizing up, and tears seemed to be the only thing free-flowing. The sleeve of his suit jacket be damned.

"Sam... I'm not..." It was Schue's turn to push his hair back in frustration, which he did before pushing the waist of his coat back to place his hands on his hips, chin to chest. "I'm not asking you to step up. I'm not asking you to be Superman. I'm not asking you to save the show, here. I'm just asking you to focus and show up. Be Sam. The rest of the team is going to follow your lead because you're Sam, and you're good at what you do. Just show up."

"Really? That's it? That's all you need me to do, Mr. Schue? Because I don't think... I don't want to... I'm not..." He shook his head, clearing his throat harshly to work his words out past the swallowed emotion. "We already have... We _had_..." He swallowed again. "You know, everyone's about the win here. Win, or the glee club goes away. Win, f-for Blaine. Win for F-finn. But when you step back and look at the big picture, is it really winning if neither of them are out there with us? Is it going to put Blaine back behind that piano where he belongs? Will it make Finn...? They were the heart of this team, and now the heart's gone." The tears won out, and instead of fighting for words, he turned, pushing the curtain aside enough to scan the audience. Three empty seats in the McKinley section. Defeated, he let the curtain drop. Velvet pressed close around his cheeks and nose, and he just inhaled the recirculated, stale air of his last breath several more times before turning back around. "It's gone, and they're not here. They're not coming."

"Oh, thank God! There you are! Mr. Schue! Mr. Schue! We have a problem!" They spun around as Tina mince-ran around the corner in her high heels and caught herself on the sleeve of Mr. Schuester's suit jacket as she skidded into him. Barely taking half a breath to steady herself, she exhaled with a rush. "We can't find Brad. No one's seen him since rehearsal last night. We think he got left at the hotel."

"Crap!" Mr. Schuester grasped his hair in both hands. "Well, we... he knows where we are. Hopefully he caught a cab, and he'll be here any minute. We just have to..."

The lights dimmed and a tone sounded backstage, the last warning before the final call for 'places.' "Mr. Schue, what are we going to do? The first number's all band, but the second one's just piano and guitar. Artie's blocked into the choreography, and we didn't bring his synth. He can't fill in on such short notice, and..."

"Places!"

Sam took Tina by the elbow and lurched for the green room, jaw set as he fixed Mr. Schuester with a determined gaze. "You heard 'em. Show time!" As he brushed past Mr. Schuester, he leaned in and added, "I'm doing my job, Mr. Schue. I'm getting us on the stage. There's no piano in the first number, and if you don't have someone out there by the time we block for the second, we'll do it a capella. One way or another, we're doing this. For Blaine! Because his number deserves to win, even if he..." He felt his nostrils flare impossibly large as he fought to swallow down an emotion too large for his throat. "You do what you gotta do to make it happen. You owe him that. Both of them. We all do."

He didn't let Schuester finish his stammer before yanking Tina into formation.

-#-

"You okay?" Burt kept his arm across his wife's shoulders, pulling her tight against him while she tucked her i.d. back into her wallet. She nodded, her head tilted into his chest, but didn't speak as she tucked Finn's driver's license in behind hers. He hadn't known she kept it there. Of course she wouldn't have thrown it away. Not given the way her hands had shaken when they presented it to her at the hospital. The way she'd panicked, worried that her tears would smear the signature on the back or the hastily scribbled directive beside it and somehow render it invalid, he'd suspected she was keeping it in the fire safe with the rest of their legal documents. Instead, it fell out of her billfold when they asked for identification at the "Will Call" desk. Burt couldn't help the glare of resentment he gave the desk clerk as she slid their tickets across the counter. Who required identification to reserve seats for a show choir competition, anyway?

The clerk didn't seem to notice. Instead, she cracked her gum and slid the tickets under the glass. "Show's already started. Those seats are yours for the remainder as well as the Awards Ceremony if you choose to stay. Closest entrance to your seats is right through those doors," she added, craning her neck to the left before pointing. "Have a nice day."

Burt noted the tremor in Carole's frame as he moved to turn them toward the door and paused to find her rooted in place, still running her thumb in reverence over the license. He realized, as he watched her trace around and around the lines of handwriting that he didn't think he'd ever seen the picture on the front. Didn't know if Finn was wearing his letter jacket. If he was grinning that big dopey smile he had whenever he knew he'd done something really good but didn't really feel like he deserved any credit for it. If he was maybe going through that phase most teenaged boys went through where he was trying to groom three longish lip hairs into a moustache. Burt had seen the student i.d. picture from Lima U. Finn was wearing a suit and tie on it. Looked every bit like the teacher he was hoping to become. But this was all he'd ever seen of Finn's driver's license- a couple of boxes with X's over them, a signature that looked like he'd been using it since elementary school- hadn't yet gotten around to schooling it into anything formal or pretentious in preparation for all the important, binding, adult type forms he'd someday have to sign- and a little note that he'd barely squeezed in along the bottom edge.

"He used to write letters," Carole offered. "Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, God- well until he discovered Grilled Cheezus," she added with a notably wet chuckle. "You'd think, with all that letter writing, his penmanship would've improved a little, wouldn't you?"

Burt shrugged with a crooked smirk, continuing to rub back and forth over her shoulders as if to massage out the knot of emotion twisting beneath the surface.

"I practically had to hire a translator to figure out what he wanted, most of the time. Because, he'd tell me the things that he needed, especially if he thought they didn't cost very much, but the things he really wanted? He only wrote those in the letters. And even then... only one thing." She smiled then, not that chin quivering, barely keeping it together smile she faked for everyone else's sake, but a dam-breaking, giant whooping breath of pride unleashing, eyes glittering with reverence and joy, smile. "One thing for himself. One thing for Mommy. One thing for Daddy in Heaven. One thing for whoever was his best friend that week... It was a miracle really, that he ever got any of them with penmanship like this." The smile tightened, breath walled up behind it once more. " _He_ was a miracle."

She pulled the card closer to her face, squinting at it incredulously. "I never even knew he did this. He never said anything. But once I saw it... when they brought it to me in the hospital...it's just so him, you know? It was like he was right there, not-not the way he was at that moment, not that shell in the bed, but _him_. My little boy. He was right there, handing me his letter to Santa Claus and bouncing on his toes, the one thing he wanted most in the world all sealed up like a present I couldn't wait to open." She kissed the plastic, pressed it to her chest. "For a second he was alive, and he was taking care of me and everyone else just like he always had. And any question, any doubt about whether we were doing the right thing was just gone."

"It's what he wanted."

"No." She shook her head. "No; he wanted to be a teacher. He wanted to take that show choir to Nationals, and marry the girl he's been in love with for years." She took a deep shuddering breath. "He wanted to _live_." A beat followed by a trembling exhale. "But he wanted Blaine to live, too. Part of me thinks that in his idealistic, naive, but so, so brave little boy mind, he believed that as long as he signed this, as long as he made the directive, all would be right with the universe and miracles were coming our way, because that's what he wanted..." She sighed. "His heart was in the right place-"

"It still is."

She looked up at him, blinking as he swiped her cheek with the pad of his thumb, and nodded. The driver's license slid back into her wallet, and she snapped it shut. "It is."

Burt offered his elbow. "You ready for this?"

She took it. "There's no place else I'd rather be."

-#-

It was... wrong.

Good? Yeah. It was good. They'd never managed to get their hand claps to "America," completely in unison before, but today? Perfect. And maybe the choreography wasn't as intricate as it could have been, but it was tight. Spot on. Fluid.

Kitty's voice was... a surprise. Sam knew she could sing. Everyone knew she could sing. They'd heard her every day since that Grease audition, but they'd never listened, the way you never listen to the backing track until it's not there and you can't find a downbeat to save your life.

Now, they were stripped down, flayed alive and cut to the bone. Now they had to listen to what was left. There shouldn't have been enough left of their hollowed out group of misfits to perform anything without falling on their faces. They probably should've cancelled their trip to Nationals after... everything, and maybe they would have if stopping had been an option. It turned out that it wasn't. They'd tried, all of them at some point, but when they stopped-stopped singing, stopped dancing, stopped being together every day close enough to lean on and hold each other up- they ended up circling the drain, sinking instead of swimming. Brittany hadn't lasted a week at MIT before she realized she couldn't be alone. Not now. And Mr. Schue had found them all practicing on their own just two days into their prescribed week off. But now Sam heard it. He heard Kitty's voice, and Joe's, the way Unique and Tina's harmonies had come together, Marley's lower register somehow stronger than before. He noticed them now, things that had always been there just below the surface suddenly bobbing to the top like a life preserver. And they weren't just clinging and floating anymore. They were rising above.

But it still felt wrong. No matter how proud he was that there were enough layers to the New Directions to keep them going, it didn't make up for the painful debridement they'd had to suffer in order to reach those layers. It didn't make up for the hole that they'd been able to spackle over on stage but still glared back at them from the empty seats in their section of the auditorium that kept drawing Sam's gaze.

Maybe it was the wrongness of it all that kept Sam's skin crawling and the hairs on the back of his neck bristling, kept his adrenaline pumping and feet on the beat, or maybe it was that certainty that the other shoe was preparing to drop that allowed him to notice when Tina's skirt didn't twirl to quite the same height as it had been and her eyes managed to widen and crinkle in the span of one hand clap. Whether he noticed by accident or because Tina intended him to, Sam did notice, and he followed her gaze off stage to where the curtains had parted just far enough for someone to peek through, and... Sebastian!

What the hell was Sebastian Smythe doing there? Sure, it had been kind of awesome when he'd volunteered himself and Trent to transfer to McKinley for the last month of school in order to fill their roster, even if it was impractical in their final semester of school and ultimately, illegal, but Sam had already been looking that gift horse squarely in the mouth before the school board put the kibosh on it. Did he really think he could just step in and replace Blaine? What was in it for him?

Anyway, that had been a month ago, right after Finn... and Blaine... What was Sebastian doing there now? In L.A.? And why was he backstage? He couldn't still be trying to sabotage them after everything... could he?

Somehow the adrenaline and muscle memory kept Sam on the beat and driving through the choreography, even as his peripheral vision kept drawing his focus into the wings where... something was happening, a lot of extra motion and way too many bodies darting around in some sort of controlled chaos. Whatever Sebastian was planning, he'd called in reinforcements, and Sam was one chorus of Neil Diamond's "America," from wringing his scrawny, weasel neck.

As Sam was about to turn stage front for the big finish, Sebastian's face split with a grin, and he ducked back behind the curtain. Finishing his turn, Sam tracked Sebastian's line of sight. It wasn't hard. His own gaze had been drawn there for the entire performance, even before Sebastian showed up. Black holes had a tendency to do that.

Except, it wasn't a black hole anymore. The seats were filled! At least, some of them. Burt and Carole were there, still settling in. Carole's purse was taking up the seat they'd reserved for Kurt, but no one had really expected him to come. Not without Blaine.

But Burt... Burt and Carole were there. And this was Finn's song. Maybe they'd missed most of it, but they were there. They made it.

"Today!"

His chest collapsed around the last word as the lights went down, his vision starting to swim behind the sheen of emotion flooding over him. They were here for Finn's song; they were going to be there for Blaine's song, and while it wasn't the same as having Finn or having Blaine, it was the next best thing. The best thing they could hope for now.

As the lights dimmed, he felt the gazes of his teammates boring into him and realized they were waiting for him to give them direction. They'd never tried the number a capella. Someone needed to count them off, and it had to be someone who'd bring them in on key. He was their leader, even if it was by default, so... yeah. He had to... And before the silence got awkward would be good. He cleared his throat, humming low enough that he hoped only he could hear it, tried once, then twice, not convinced he had it but finally drew in a breath, ready to go for broke.

"Two, three, four," a familiar voice cut him off, counted them in from stage left as a piano started playing. Before everyone could draw in their first breath, the curtain drew back, widening the performance area enough to reveal the piano no one had had the chance to push to center stage. The top was propped open so the pianist was obscured from the rest of the choir, his back to the audience as Jake and Brittany danced into the spotlight at center stage. There was no time to gape or even breathe a sigh of relief before the choir began to sing.

They went for broke. No excuses. No holding back. They had to. Glee was about opening your heart to joy, and theirs had been laid open for months, waiting...

 _Depression is doing all the things you love, throwing your heart into everything the way you always have and getting nothing back. It's opening your heart to joy, wide open, but none shows up._

 **"I'm a plane in the sunset, with nowhere to land."**

It was there. The joy. It had to be. Blaine taught them that. Finn taught them that. And they were ready for it.

 _It's like catching your breath again after you've been drowning. You get so caught up in it, that you don't even realize you're still drowning, because you've convinced yourself you don't need air._

Blaine taught them nothing they felt in their hearts was wrong.

Finn gave them the heart to feel it.

 **"Ah la la la la la la la, life is wonderful."**

They'd felt it at Sectionals, with Blaine on the stage with them, his soul bleeding into the music and their eyes only just opened, still squinting and fighting for focus.

 _I felt like that when I sang and I got the audience on their feet. I felt like that when I got a dance move right after practicing it for hours... When I found just the words that someone needed to hear and I said them. When my dad said he was proud of me. When I_ loved _my boyfriend._

They'd felt it at Regionals, when Blaine was the ghost and they the haunted, the lot of them hollowed out and chasing the shadows of what they thought they knew.

 _And then you're back drowning again, only now it's worse, because you remember what it felt like to fly_.

 **"I want to stay in love with my sorrow."**

 _Like the reverb speaker I'd been tuned into my whole life was wired to the wrong mic, and I never noticed._

 **"Only a man in a silly red sheet, digging for Kryptonite on a one way street."**

They felt it now, their souls burned and scraped raw so that every nerve was still exposed. They couldn't _not_ feel it. Not now. Sam would never have thought they could feel it more, but this was Nationals, the accumulation of everything that came before, where they surmounted the insurmountable odds, and triumphed over the tragedy.

It was almost too much.

 **"Will I-I-I-I, divi-i-i-ide and fall apart?"**

Or maybe it was just enough.

 **"Full of grace. My love. It's better this way."**

They were accustomed to the audiences taking a minute to digest that number, used the lull behind the final sustain to catch their breaths, panting as though they'd done more than standing stationary in silhouette while Jake and Brittany danced, all of them drained emotionally with the final number still to perform. At any moment, they were sure the audience would jump to their feet, and bring down the house while the choir scatter-drilled into final formation.

Any minute now.

Any... minute.

Instead of the applause they were expecting, the audience gasped in unison as the piano bench scraped backward over the wood floor, and the top slammed closed with a puff of smoke.

Sam was ready to call for a fire extinguisher when a figure swirled out of the mist, clad in a yellow cape that disbursed the smoke in its wake. He caught a glimpse of a giant yellow treble clef insignia as the pianist spun to center stage before taking a bow.

"Oh my God," Tina whisper-shouted into his ear. "Its..."

"The Almighty Treble Clef, Uniter of Glee Clubs..." Sam finished, unable to keep the note of awe from his voice.

Tina smacked him, "No, you..."

"Blaine!" Marley didn't bother to whisper as she rushed out to center stage.

But it couldn't be. Blaine couldn't come to L.A. His doctors wouldn't give him clearance to go through the airport terminal. Too many germs. They hadn't even reserved him a seat because...

That's when Blaine turned. Even clad head to toe in Finn's superhero costume (which Kurt had done an excellent job of tailoring down to size from the looks of it) and a paper surgical mask over half his face, there was no mistaking the bushy eyebrows and twinkling eyes.

Glee was about opening your heart to joy, and once it was filled to overflowing, it was about sharing that joy with the world.

That's when they stormed center stage. Performance clock be damned.

The audience didn't hold back either.

-#-

" _Ladies and Gentleman, that concludes the competition phase of our show. On behalf of all of our National Show Choir performers, their families, coaches, and chaperones, we'd like to invite you to remain in your seats for a special tribute performance from all of our choirs as the judges leave to begin deliberations. Please allow just a few minutes for everyone to get organized backstage. In the interim, we'd like to thank all of our sponsors and benefactors for today's show, beginning with the HeeHee Hu Method, Lamaze Training for Singers, because breath control isn't just for pushing out babies anymore, now available on DVD and Blu-Ray with special bonus track 'Kegels for Kountertenors, Falsetto Training for The Pop Stars of Tomorrow...'_ "

Blaine shrugged his shoulders and circled them as Kurt's fingers worked out the knots in his neck. What nerves had been dissipated by the group hug and collective welcome back into the fold, had returned during the quick change out of his Treble Clef costume and into a suit jacket and bow tie. It didn't help that he could hear the entire show choir collective warming up behind him, and it was starting to kick in just how big a deal this was. It wasn't just any performance this time.

And, of course, Carole, God love her, hadn't stopped watching him like a hawk, constantly plying him with hand sanitizer and motioning for him to pull up his surgical mask, reminding him that he wasn't in the clear yet, never really would be. They were only here at all because Sebastian's father owned a private jet that allowed them to bypass the main airport terminal and gain the grudging blessing of his doctor to make the trip. But he didn't want to be thinking about that now. This wasn't about the risks and the setbacks and long term prognoses. This was about the gift. A celebration.

Not a masquerade.

He took a heaving breath, closed his eyes, and ripped off the mask. Hearing Kurt draw in a gasp beside him, Blaine kissed him soundly before he could protest. As the tension melted away, he pulled back just far enough that he could see into Kurt's eyes and whispered, "I got this. I do," then punctuated with another quick peck and spun on his heel, through the curtain, and out onto the stage.

A low spotlight illuminated the piano as he picked up the wireless mic headset from the fallboard and adjusted it into position. Clearing his throat, he noted with satisfaction that the mic was working and strolled around to the edge of the spotlight. Rubbing his hands together, he leaned back slightly. "Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen. Is everyone enjoying the competition today?"

A spackling of applause with a stray wolf whistle or two in response gave him the impetus to keep going.

He tapped the mic and adjusted it a little closer to his mouth. "You'll have to bear with me if I'm a little hard to hear. My breath support's not quite back to one hundred percent, yet. But hey, I'm breathing, and 'Look Mom, no oxygen tank.'"

The rumble that went through the crowd was more of confusion than amusement. Blaine closed his eyes and took a minute to regroup. He forgot the mic momentarily as he muttered under his breath, "Stupid, Anderson. This is not the time for jokes." His jaw set, and he opened his eyes again, chin dipping slightly as his shoulder squared up. "I'm sorry. Little false start there. This is," a hiss of breath through his nose, jaw clenching as he fisted the hem of his suit jacket, "a LOT harder than I thought it was going to be."

"Dude, you got this!" Sam called from the wings.

"Blaine!" Tina and Marley shouted their support, and he couldn't help but chuckle to himself before continuing.

"Well, then," he exhaled, "for those of you who haven't pieced it together on your own, my name is Blaine Anderson, and that's my show choir back there, the New Directions of Lima, Ohio. They were amazing, am I right?"

Another smattering of applause, mostly from backstage, this time.

He cleared his throat again, gazing down momentarily. "I know some of you are probably wondering why I'm up here now when I barely put in a cameo during the actual competition." He started a slow pace within the confines of his spotlight, hands clasped behind his back. "I'd love to say it was all part of some grand scheme orchestrated by my older brother, Cooper, in an attempt to steal the spotlight in the name of Anderson, but believe me, there's no place I'd rather have been during that performance than up there with the rest of my choir. Every single one of them is amazingly talented and equally deserving of this spotlight."

He wiped his palms down the sides of his pants before clapping his hands together in front of himself once more, thumb knuckles just missing the mic. "But this isn't their spotlight. Or mine."

A beat.

"It's Finn's."

Behind him, the acoustic shell at the back of the stage became a projection screen. The face of one Finn Hudson beamed off the screen, cheeks flushed with the excitement of performing the opening bars of their Meatloaf number from the previous year's Nationals. Blaine was behind him, slightly out of focus but unmistakable for the height difference and the dark, slicked back hair.

"Finn couldn't be here in person this year, and even though my doctors were extremely reluctant to let me make a trip across the country this close out from my," he cleared his throat again, choking on nerves and emotion simultaneously, "uh, heart transplant, I knew this was the last chance for both of us to be on this Nationals stage together with the people who supported us through what was probably the best and worst year of our lives."

He paused on the very edge of his circle and shook his head briefly to dispel the claws scritching their way past his defenses. "And... with everything going down the way it did, I-I missed the funeral and the memorial service, which was so, so unfair, seeing as no one has more to thank him for than I do." He let that sink in for another beat before turning on his high beam smile, eyes wide in amazement and gratitude. "I mean, look at me. I'm alive. Believe it or not, there was a time, not too long ago, when I was sure I'd never stand here again, and I'm only here now because of him. Don't get me wrong, it's probably best that I didn't get the chance before now to thank him, because, as it turns out, just breathing while your chest is basically held together with fishing line and staples is, well, it's excruciating, so crying is..." He huffed out something between a laugh and a cry, not sure which he needed to do the most. "Anyway, if I shed a few tears up here, rest assured they are tears of joy and tears of gratitude and long, long overdue."

He might as well have left out the 'if' in that statement, as his cheeks were already damp when he turned to face the projection screen behind him. "Joy, because _this_ is the Finn I got to know." The picture transitioned to a shot of Finn beaming after he finally conquered the Widowmaker that day in Booty Camp, one of he and Blaine trading encouragements over the seats while they sat in the audience waiting for their chance to perform at Sectionals, Finn in both his John Travolta disco suit and his original Almighty Treble Clef costume, marker cap in hand with no marker to be found. It faded to black on a shot of Finn and Sam on his motorcycle the day they came to keep Blaine company in the hospital right before Mr. Schue's wedding.

"And gratitude, because of what he was willing to give for the people he cared about." The screen lit up on one of the ridiculous selfies they took that day in the hospital while they were waiting for test results. Blaine tried not to cringe at how pale and exhausted he looked, or the way the collar of his gown had slipped down far enough to expose his ICD, because the way Finn helped support his glassy-eyed self with an arm around behind him, even though Blaine knew the back of his gown was open enough for there to be more than a little skin on skin contact, said so much more about Finn than Blaine. A short muted video clip from the school lockdown focused into full clarity as Finn burst through the front doors with Blaine's body pulled into his chest while SWAT members crouched behind police lines with shields and guns. That cut to a shot of Finn and Sam weighing down the back of the Cheerios golf cart as they barreled down the halls of Dalton Academy to get Kurt and Blaine to their pinning ceremony, followed by another from the ceremony itself, Finn's grinning face perfectly framed by Kurt and Blaine as they clasped hands with the Warblers lining the staircase behind them. A short video clip of the rose petals raining down, faded into a slightly blurred closeup of the back of Finn's Ohio Operator's License where he had not only checked off the organ donor box but scribbled on the side, 'Heart for Blaine Anderson, 3-21-13,' and initialed it, F.H.

The closing shot showed hospital staff lining the hallways from Finn's place in the ICU to the surgical suite where they would harvest his organs for transplant, as was his wish.

It took less than half a beat for the crowd to gasp in unison as realization set in that they were witness that day to both tragedy and miracle.

Still, Blaine wasn't sure they really got it. He turned his face up to the projection booth where his brother Cooper was manning the audio/video portion of the presentation. "Coop, can we go back a little?"

The images on the screen blinked out for a second then back on at the rose petal footage.

"One more," Blaine directed, and when the picture from the pinning ceremony flickered into focus, he held up his hand. "There. That one." He turned to fully face the screen, then, taking in the full effect of image. "This is a great picture, isn't it? I'm not sure who took this exact one, but... wow!" He stayed silent, giving everyone plenty of time to take it in with him.

"There's a lot about this photo that hits home for me. There are the obvious reasons, like, this was the day I got pinned to Kurt. It was a surprise ceremony we sprung on all of our friends. Most of them didn't even know what a pinning was, but they all showed up to support us anyway. They didn't know I'd actually asked Kurt to marry me instead." He chuckled, more of a nervous laugh than humor, but he was far enough removed by then to find _some_ humor in it as well. "At least three times, I think, before he decided I was lucid enough to actually take me seriously. Kurt, of course, knew me well enough to know that I was really saying I was so scared that I wasn't going to make it much longer and wanted to cram as much of our forever into the time I had left as possible. He was also the one wise enough to say we weren't going to let fear dictate our lives any more than it already had. He came up with the idea of getting pinned, and planned the whole ceremony in less than a week. But there was one thing he forgot to account for."

He glanced into the wings with his most assuring smile in place, knowing full well that Kurt would be anxiously scraping his brain trying to figure out what Blaine was referring to.

"He forgot that I needed to shave for the ceremony." The crowd chuckled, but he saw Kurt's eyes well up as he realized where the story was going. "Or rather, he forgot that I couldn't do it myself anymore. Someone had to help me, because I got so lightheaded when I tried to do it that I couldn't be trusted with sharp objects. Usually, Kurt helped me, or my dad, but on the day of the ceremony they were both off at the venue getting everything set up, and my mom's hands were shaking more than my own at that point. So, she called Finn." His laugh this time was entirely mirth. "If any of you had known Finn, then you'd know that it was a little like giving a toddler permission to run with scissors. I genuinely feared for my life, and I know it had to be awkward for him, too, but he showed up with that same goofy grin on his face that always said he was glad to help, no matter what. And he didn't cut me, not even once, which is more than I can say for the first time my dad tried to help me." Everyone laughed, then.

"But the point of the story isn't that I stared death in the face that day or even that I look amazingly clean cut in this picture because Finn showed up. The point is that we had a chance to talk that day. It was the first time we really had a one on one since before the lockdown at McKinley, and even though neither of us knew it at the time, it was the last chance we'd ever have." Blaine turned to stare at the picture again, felt himself fall into the moment captured there, all the emotions of that day, the before and the after, flooding over him. "See, it wasn't just the day Kurt and I got pinned, but it was the day Finn had the accident that he never woke up from. And while my mind can't really reconcile the irony and the unfairness of that, my heart... _Finn's_ heart... is eternally grateful that we got that chance to talk, because my last memory of him will forever be me telling him that I got on the transplant list and he telling me that I was going to dance at my wedding someday." Blaine choked on the next words. "That he-he knew it in his heart."

Blaine was looking at his shoes by then, but he could tell from the muffled sounds around him that he wasn't the only one choking on that last statement. He swallowed hard before continuing.

"I needed to hear that." He cleared his throat. "Um, not everyone knows this, but what Finn did for me is called a directed donation, and while they play fast and loose with the specifics of it on 'Grey's Anatomy,' the guidelines for a directed donation when the recipient and the donor are actual acquaintances requires that both sides consent before the donor passes. Finn gave his consent by scribbling a note on the back of his driver's license, and his family gave theirs by letting him go rather than keeping him on life support indefinitely. But I have to admit, as sick as I was, as much as I knew I needed that heart, I don't think I was at a place, yet, where I believed I was worthy of that kind of sacrifice. Not knowing what Finn meant to everyone I knew, what he meant to me, how integral he was in so much of my life and everyone else's. I didn't believe I deserved that. I don't think I could have lived knowing that he had to die if we hadn't had that moment that day. His _belief,_ no matter how he came about it, made me believe, too. He believed I was worth it. He believed I deserved to live, and when it came down to it, when they came to me and told me it was my decision to accept this heart, knowing they would remove him from life support in order to give it to me, I knew that was exactly how things were supposed to be. Because he believed it, and more than that, because he was happy to do it."

He huffed into the microphone, half a relieved exhale to finally have the weight of that decision shared with everyone in that audience, and half acceptance of some profound truth that he'd only just realized.

"He was. Happy, I mean. He was so happy that day. I-I can't reveal all the details of his private life, but I can tell you that he might have been sleep-deprived that morning, but he had no regrets. Not a single one. He'd made good on everything in his life that made him question himself and his own worth and finally felt like he could have and do everything that he ever wanted, and I believe that if he could have, he'd have reached inside his chest and given me this heart right then and there so that I could feel as good as he did at that moment. I mean, look at his face in this picture," he gestured toward the screen. "That is what it looks like to be completely unburdened and at peace with the world." Then, he turned back to face the audience. "He had that, and he wanted that for everyone he cared about. He made me see that I'm one of those people, and I deserve that as much as anyone."

Blaine got quiet again, not even trying to hide the tears dripping off his jaw that he had to swipe off the arm of the mic to keep it from crackling with moisture. "If I can take even a fraction of that with me into the next chapters of my life, I have to believe that he is grinning that big, dopey grin wherever he is and kicking down any doors that are in my way just like he never left. His heart was just that big."

"Literally." Blaine didn't realize he'd slipped into somewhat of a stupor until Kurt's voice crackled over the speaker, amplified by Blaine's mic as arms slipped around his waist from behind. Blaine sniffled into Kurt's neck, offering silent thanks for the support before straightening and picking up Kurt's segue.

"Yes, literally," Blaine huffed, wiping at his cheeks. "In fact, they'd already put me on bypass and removed my damaged heart before they realized Finn's heart wouldn't fit. It turned out there was too much swelling and edema in my chest from having been in heart failure that they couldn't close it up until the swelling went down two days later. Can't tell you how glad I am that I slept through that!"

The crowd laughed then, and he knew he'd done Finn justice. Laughter through tears wasn't only the best emotion, it was pretty much everything there was to say about Finn Hudson.

That just left the one thing he never got to say _to_ Finn Hudson.

"That sounds to me like a sentiment best expressed through song. And since my voice is still too shaky to really do it justice, I want to welcome onto the stage all of today's competitors to help me in paying tribute to Finn Christopher Hudson, aka, The Almighty Treble Clef, Uniter of Glee clubs." Stepping to the edge of the stage, "Carole, I won't put you on the spot by making you come up here, but I just want you to know that I am forever indebted to you for raising Finn to be the amazing, kind, and giving person that he was. I hope that I can make you half as proud. This song is as much for you as for him."

By the time he'd taken a seat at the piano, the risers behind him had filled up with the rest of the show choirs, including Sebastian who wouldn't be denied his one chance to sing on a Nationals stage, all of them parted in the middle to frame a picture of Finn in his quarterback uniform.

( **Hear You Me** , Jimmy Eat World)

 _There's no one in town I know_

 _You gave us someplace to go._

 _I never said thank you for that_

 _Thought I might get one more chance_.

The photo transitioned into more of Finn in various embraces, high-fives, and bro-hugs with various members of the old and New Directions, not a few of which from Burt and Carole's wedding.

 _What would you think of me now?_

 _So lucky, so strong, so proud._

 _I never said thank you for that._

 _Now I'll never have a chance._

The montage shifted between the earlier photo of Finn and Sam visiting Blaine in the hospital, through stills of the school lockdown and the pinning ceremony, to various pictures of Blaine during his recovery, his color returning and scars fading the closer they got to present day.

The entire mass choir joined in to harmonize the chorus.

 _May angels lead you in._

 _Hear you me my friend._

 _On sleepless roads, the sleepless go._

 _May angels lead you in_.

After the second chorus, Blaine stood and moved away from the piano, joining hands with Kurt at the front of the stage as the accompaniment was taken over by the choir vocalizing behind him. He and Kurt performed the last bit as a duet, sharing the same microphone.

 _And if you were with me tonight._

 _I'd sing to you just one more time._

 _A song of a heart so big,_

 _that [God had to let it live]._

The rest of the choir took up the chorus in a wall of sound so massive, Blaine almost felt the hair at the back of his neck part in its wake.

 _May angels lead you in._

 _Hear you me, my friend._

 _On sleepless roads, the sleepless go._

 _May angels lead you in._

When Carole burst into tears, Kurt and Blaine rushed into the audience and brought her onstage with them, Burt pulling them all together in a family embrace.

The song didn't fade out for another fifteen choruses, and when it did, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Nor was there when Blaine's arrangement won the award for Best Expression of the Theme 'Stigmatized' along with the scholarship money and Public Service Announcement contract that went with it.

If the New Directions only ended up second that year, well, it was one loss they were prepared to handle. The best winners learned how to lose with grace and dignity and came back to win bigger the next time around.

Finn taught them that.

And Blaine was there to make sure they did.

 **The End**

* * *

 **Epilogue**

"You know, I have learned to tie one of these myself," Blaine demurred as Kurt reached around from behind him and tied his bowtie.

"I do know that. And I'm sure after ten years together that you know I never pass up the opportunity to share a vanity with my gorgeous husband." Kurt ducked his head so that his head was on Blaine's shoulder, the two of them framed perfectly in the mirror. "My, we make a handsome couple."

"Wow!" Blaine exclaimed. "It still blows my mind to hear that out loud."

"Hear what? Ten years?"

"Well, yeah. It almost doesn't seem possible that it's been that long."

"Longer actually."

Blained hmmed, conceding to the unspoken way they'd both started marking their time together from the day he got his new heart. "Seems like an entire lifetime. It's hardly even the same world anymore, is it?"

Kurt turned his attention to his own outfit, pulling seams straight and checking the fastener on the Warbler pin to make sure it didn't fall off his lapel. They'd almost forgotten, in the wake of Finn's death and everything that came after, about giving each other the personalized pins they'd bought each other before the pinning. But when Lizzie found Blaine's by accident while looking for her favorite pair of sunglasses, Kurt had dug his out as well. The twinkling, Swarovski crystal encrusted phoenix on his lapel was the perfect complement to the Native American inspired thunderbird pin on Blaine's, one beauty and sparkle, the other a mosaic of bold, primary colors, and both a symbol of rising above. "I like to think it's better. The world, I mean."

Blaine stood and turned into Kurt's space, returning the favor by straightening his husband's tie. "And I would have to agree."

"You're a huge part of that, you know?" Kurt took Blaine by the elbows, tilting his chin as they locked eyes. "I mean, if you hadn't used your fifteen minutes of 'Stigmatized' fame to get that meeting with Carmen Tibideaux on behalf of your, stunning, talented, and slightly OCD fiance' and convinced her to implement the mental health support and counseling program at NYADA, I don't know if I'd have been able to graduate on time, let alone finish our co-write. And if that hadn't been picked up for production, I don't know that I'd have ever gotten up the courage to finally bite the bullet and drag you down the aisle."

"And we would never have been able to dance our first dance together as husband and husband to the soundtrack of Finn singing at Burt and Carole's wedding," Blaine smirked, moving his hands to Kurt's hips.

Kurt sighed a happy sigh, eyes tilted to the ceiling in fond reverence as he slid his forearms up to rest on Blaine's shoulders. "Oh, that was amazing. I never danced so much in my whole life."

"And you know what else this means?"

Kurt's face pinched, honestly confounded by the question. "What does what mean?"

"Ten years, Kurt." He gave Kurt's hips a squeeze to punctuate. "When I got this heart ten years ago, the average extended life of someone with a new heart transplant was just under ten years." As a shadow crossed Kurt's features, Blaine fanned his fingers into the small of his back and added, "Of course, at the time the average age of someone getting a new heart was also fifty-five, so I probably started at least a little ahead of the curve on that one, but still... Kurt, it's been ten years. At this point, I'm just as likely to die in a car crash, workplace accident, _or_ heart failure as anyone else my age. And the advancement in assist devices and other technology have made heart transplants almost obsolete, so in all likelihood, I will get to keep this heart for the rest of what we have every reason to believe will be a very long, full life."

Kurt squinted down into his eyes, feigning skepticism as he canted his hips forward into Blaine's. "When did you get to be such an optimist?"

"When I stopped trying to make people love me and let you love me enough to drown out the haters."

"Like you ever had any real haters," Kurt scoffed, if only half-teasing.

"Well, only one that really counted." Blaine saw the way Kurt's gaze fell, felt his forearms slide back until Kurt's thumbs were stroking the edge of his jawbone just under his ear, knew he was remembering that first time he'd woken up in their bed, his chest soaked with Blaine's tears, both of them realizing too late that the bouncy, happy Blaine who'd picked Kurt up from dance rehearsal every day that week hadn't just been extra attentive due to his own finals being finished for the semester.

"Mmm, once I convinced that guy that we didn't have to break up every time he needed his medication adjusted, I think we all learned to get along a little better. After ten years, I'd say we've got it down to a science."

"More like an art," Blaine corrected, "a beautiful," peck, "wonderful," peck, "magnificent and inspired," peck and peck, "art." He kissed Kurt soundly, humming into it to express his deep and abiding gratitude before pulling back. "And you are a regular Maestro."

"All right you two, keep the kinky bedroom talk in the bedroom. These are the hallowed halls of education."

They broke their embrace and spun toward the door. "Wes!"

"Blaine! Kurt!" Wes gave them each hugs in greeting. "You both look amazing. I'm so glad you two could make it. I know you're both really busy, what with your show selling out every night and all."

"Are you kidding?" Blaine scoffed. "We wouldn't miss it for the world. But you know you really didn't have to go to all this trouble. We didn't do it for P.R. or anything."

"Of course not," Kurt concurred. "Dalton is the birthplace of Klaine. It has its own set back in New York. The entire first act of our show is set here. When we heard about the changes you were making, we had to make a contribution."

"A very generous contribution, for which we are extremely grateful," Wes pontificated.

"Just don't spend it all on your new desk, Mr. Headmaster," Blaine joked, clapping him on the shoulder.

Wes blushed into his chest. "You two aren't the only ones whose lives changed for the better here, and as Headmaster, I'm really looking forward to making the new Dalton Academy as safe and accepting as it was before Hunter Clarington and the fire," after a brief pause, he added, "for everyone."

From the corridor, the a capella vocalizations they all recognized immediately as the opening chords of "Teenage Dream" began to filter into the green room. "I think that's your cue." Wes guided them toward the door. They barely cleared the frame before Blaine broke into song, running down the hall and sliding into the throng of Warblers at the bottom of the reconstructed staircase followed closely by Kurt who sauntered up at his own speed, trading a hip bump with his husband before harmonizing the chorus with him. The song ended with raucous applause, and it was only then that they realized half the group was comprised of Warblers from their tenure at Dalton over a decade prior.

"Trent, Thad, Nick, Jeff!" Blaine greeted. "Hey, guys!"

"Sebastian," Kurt added with a sneer. He couldn't hold it more than a second, his face splitting into a grin as he clapped his former nemesis on the back.

"Believe it or not, it's actually good to see you, too," Sebastian acknowledged, returning the gesture.

"Okay, gentlemen," Wes interrupted. "So many people showed up for the presentation that we actually had to move it out to the front lawn. If you'll just follow me into the foyer, I'll introduce you."

The Warblers filed out, lining the steps leading up to the building and made a corridor for Wes as he stepped up to the podium. His microphone crackled for only a second as he adjusted it closer to his mouth. Blaine noted bemusedly that there was no gavel to be seen.

"Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to the first day of our fall semester here at the New Dalton Academy. For the first time in Dalton Academy history, and after many hours of careful deliberation over the logistics of it all, we now have a fully diverse and integrated student body. To accommodate this change, our campus, while maintaining a lot of the historical beauty and architecture that was resurrected after the fire, has gotten somewhat of a facelift to enhance accessibility for all of its students. Besides the addition of both a girls' and a co-ed dormitory, we added extra lavatories in the main building, both gender specific and gender neutral so that no student will ever be more than a hallway away from a facility in which they can feel safe and comfortable. Our athletic wing and field house have had additional locker rooms and showers installed as well, and we've hired a coach to help us develop a competitive co-ed Dance and Cheer team. More notably, perhaps, for our esteemed alumni, the Dalton Academy Warblers have recruited several female members and will be holding open auditions for the first time since their inception. Anyone is welcome to try out without bias."

Wes lifted a spiral bound book off his podium and presented it to the crowd. "These and all other changes to the Dalton curriculum and campus are outlined in our handbook which all new students will receive at enrollment and which can be accessed in pdf form on the school website."

"As you can imagine, none of this would be possible without the generous contributions of many of our alumni and community sponsors. We would be remiss not to openly thank those donors, which is why we're all here today."

"Most of you will recognize our special guests this afternoon. Some of you went to school with them. Others were students here when we were devastated by the fire and they spearheaded the movement to integrate you into McKinley while leading you to a National Show Choir Championship. Some of you saw their show on Broadway and were so inspired by their small town Ohio beginnings that you couldn't wait to follow in their footsteps at the actual brick and mortar Dalton Academy they brought to life on stage."

"You know them as Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel, co-writers, producers, and stars of their semi-autobiographical rock opera, smash-hit based on the music of Air Supply, 'Now and Forever,' which has been nominated for several Tony Awards, including Best Writing, Best Musical Arrangement, Best Costumes, And Best Dual Lead in a Musical. We know them simply as Blaine and Kurt, co-stars not only on Broadway but in life. Married now for the past six years, they were generous enough to donate the money for our co-ed dormitory, recently christened Klaine Hall, as well as setting up a fund to provide full tuition for one lucky LGBTQ student per year. On top of that, Kurt, formerly of Vogue dot com, has volunteered his services as fashion consultant and designer to completely revamp the Dalton uniforms so that there will now be a fashion forward option to complement our traditional ensemble as well as a full line of accessories. Ladies and Gentlemen, Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel!"

Blaine raised his eyebrows suggestively as he backed up to the metal railing on the stairs. As if psychically connected, Kurt winked back and backed up to the opposite railing, counting off three with the fingers of his right hand before they slid down in near perfect synchrony. They were met with thunderous applause, catching the faces of all their friends and family standing in the audience.

Well, most of their friends and family. Reaching the podium together, they each took the other's hand and shared a quizzical gaze, both having noted the glaring absence of their parents. They'd spoken with Burt and Carole just this morning, and Pam and Thomas had put them up for the night, since they lived the closest. They wouldn't miss this for the world. And if they were missing, then where was...

"Places!" A tiny voice squeaked.

They spun to the right where a jodphur-clad five-year old with giant bows at the ends of her dark brown braided pigtails slid her pink sunglasses down her nose using her glitter painted fingernails, pinky finger in the air, and batted ridiculously long eyelashes at them from the pedestal of the bronze statue at the corner of the building. She was just opening her mouth, undoubtedly to begin a spirited rendition of "Tomorrow," her flavor of the week for the past three weeks, when the missing grandparents stumbled around the corner of the building, nearly collapsing in relief to find the object of what appeared to have been a long and harrowing chase materialized safe and sound in front of them. Carole and Pam both surged forward, taking one tiny hand apiece as they shook their heads in apology.

"We're so sorry, boys. She lured us away for a potty break and then took off when she heard the singing," Carole sighed.

"Like daddies, like daughter," Pam shrugged.

"It's okay," Blaine dismissed, holding out his hand.

"You can't keep a diva from her spotlight," Kurt quipped, holding out one of his as well. "Let her come up. This is a family affair, after all." Anyone in the front row would've been able to see they were all wearing matching nail polish as their daughter ran up to join them. Everyone awwed as they hoisted her onto the podium, their arms joining behind her to keep her from tipping back as her feet kicked over the front edge in their tiny little paddock boots.

"Everyone," Blaine addressed the audience, his face splitting with pride, "this is our daughter and potential future Dalton Academy student..."

"Not to mention the in utero winner of the Tony Award for Best Actress in a Musical," Kurt added with a gleeful chuckle.

"Miss Elizabeth Finn Anderson-Hummel."

Lizzie immediately scowled, shoving her sunglasses to the top of her head before crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Blaine. "Daddy!"

Blaine feigned surrender, fanning his hands out in front of him as he took a step back, then moved his lips to the microphone. "Oops, my apologies. Future Broadway star, Miss Lizzie Fine, everyone!"

The crowd applauded, tears in their eyes from laughing, and Lizzie ate it up, mock curtseying from her perch atop the podium. Unable to control himself, Blaine tugged his daughter into his chest, relished the warmth of Kurt's arm at the small of his back. As he was wont to do, he said a silent thank you to Finn for every blessing he'd received in the last ten years, and every one yet to come. Without fail, every time he thought his heart was full to bursting, he got to re-learn just how big it actually was.

Finn taught him that.

His friends taught him that, too, cat calling and wolf whistling from the audience today and at every one of his premieres since high school.

His family taught him that, ready to take Lizzie in a heartbeat without judgment whenever he needed a mental health day... or week.

Lizzie taught him that, spitfire diva one minute and doting cuddle bug the next, ready in the blink of an eye with her favorite blanket and an entire menagerie of stuffed animals to prop him up and keep him warm on the days when Blaine just needed to hold and be held.

Kurt taught him that every day, and he did it with such nuance and grace that Blaine barely even noticed that he was doing it. It happened, and then one day, maybe a day just like this one, Blaine would turn around and realize he was better than before. They were better.

Maybe they were works in progress.

Maybe the progress was slow going and painful, at times. But together they were better, and that was all he needed to know of where they'd been to believe without a doubt in how far they had yet to go. He could wait to get there.

If the journey was this good, he could wait forever.

AN: That's it folks. This marks a huge obstacle overcome for me. I hadn't finished a story in over six years when I started this, and my fear of not being able to finish it almost prevented me from trying again. But I was so inspired by these characters, and I missed the writing so much, I just had to give it one more go. I can't express how much of a relief it is for me to be able to call this one finished. I thought I would never finish a story again. But now what? It's over. This is over a year of my life, and I'm terrified now that this story will disappear into oblivion. All the archives are dead, the rec lists. That's how people find the stories that are worth reading. That's why I still get hits and favorites on Supernatural stories I wrote years ago. Someone recced them. Someone archived them. People read those lists. No one's updating Glee fandom anymore. I was actually reading a story on the crisscolferlibrary on tumblr and when I clicked back to read the next one on the list, the entire archive was gone. I don't know that anyone will ever be able to find this story once it's finished. They won't know to look for it. I feel like posting this final chapter is like sending it into the abyss. Please don't let that happen. Read. Comment, because that's the only way I know you read it, and then bookmark it for later. Tell your friends.

I don't know if I will write more Glee fic. I knew I was taking a chance that there wouldn't even be anyone left to read this one when I started, and now that it's a year later, I feel like there's even less of an audience. But I still love the characters and don't know if I can abandon them completely. I might entertain some oneshot ideas in this story verse if you want to leave prompts, but I can't promise anything. I have some really intriguing ideas. In one, Blaine walks out of that cafe' after the breakup in 6.1 and gets hit by a bus, winds up a John Doe with a somewhat altered appearance, ala Grey's Anatomy, who doesn't know his own identity, is rehabbed with a new identity and discovered while working as a janitor at Tisch or NYADA, ala Good Will Hunting, and winds up in a relationship with Kurt, but since it was his breakup with Kurt that immediately preceded his accident, he has flashbacks and PTSD that are triggered by being with Kurt. Wow, that's angsty. And I have some dark, twisted ideas, like what if Eli C. is actually a Facebook pseudonym for Eli Cooper Anderson? Eli/Cooper has been abusing Blaine all his life but pulls back after Sadie Hawkins. When he finds out about Kurt, and realizes Blaine has a physical relationship with Kurt, Cooper picks up the abuse at a heightened level, and leads Blaine to break up with Kurt out of shame and for Kurt's protection. That's probably too dark, but it does intrigue me. Will I write those stories? I really don't know. Do you want me to? Will you still be here if I do? Or are they so AU I should just write them with my own characters? I don't know. I'm not ready to leave these boys, but I'm not sure I have it in me to put myself out here like this again.

Anyway, please just drop me a comment. I know they aren't supposed to matter to me as much as the process of writing the story, but honestly, I've never been able to be objective enough about my writing to stop questioning why it's not good enough for people to comment on it. That might be pathetic, and I know it's unhealthy, but it's as much a part of my process as the writing. To everyone who's commented already, I thank you so much. The anons who not only guessed where I was going (sorry, I never watched thirtysomething) but understood my medical jargon and even concurred with me on some of my creative leaps, you put my mind at ease, as did those of you dealing with similar medical conditions either directly or indirectly. Your kind words and reassurances kept me writing when it would have been so much easier to stop. I am blessed for each and every one of you. I hope I gave you something you will remember fondly.


End file.
